Poetry

I am a cat. Supercool and lax.
Tom, Deuteronomy,
Pussy, Max,
I don't care much what you call me, you're a fool
with a thundering capacity to deny it.

My real name, if you must know it,
is Casanova.
I'm a little on the Spanish side.
Look into my eyes:
see there wane and wax
the phases of the moon.
Of course I'll let you stroke me! I'll
sleep with you, sit in your lap
do anything else you please
but I will certainly not
walk beside you on a leash--
I'm not such a fool as that!
I will always have my own door.
For that, you need another breed.
For that you need a dog.

Sorry, I'm a cat.
It makes me laugh
how when you see my eyes
bobbing in the dark
you think you see a vision, when
I'm just taking a walk.

Mice waltz down my throat
and birdbath birds fly headfirst down:
more would, but for this bell
by which I'm collar bound:
Forewarned, they squeal and scatter
scurry downstairs to their comfy lairs.

Remember, I'm a cat.
Nothing to do about that.
Exhausting my nine ends
I'll straightaway ascend way up to cat heaven--
(a biggish sort of alley)
Chockachockablock with all my friends.

Cream, kipper me, even
subject me to noculations
for if you do that
I may, occasionally, occasionally,
(providing the mood befalls me)
catch a rat.