With your saucer of warm milk to sip...
Your ball of yarn!
Your scented toys!
So self satisfied!
So Siamese. So Persian. So resplendent!
Too proud to speak, or heal, or fetch, by far.
Too smug to beg, sit up, or chase a car.
No shame at all!
You tomcats and you pusses,
Yowling for each other in the bushes.
You come on little cat's feet like a fog,
No yelp of gratitude or greeting...a la dog.
You consort with witches for the hell of it,
And still are limned in verse by T.S. Eliot.
Oh, you cats! With your cat-naps and your cat-wives,
Always landing on your feet with your cursed nine lives!
I suppose your immortality gives you your cat-guts.
No metaphysical considerations drive you half nuts.
But, given what philosophy or poems can do,
I'd rather be a kitten and cry mew!
You never worry about pie...(or is it catnip)...in the sky,
Or play at being God yourself, as I...
You naughty kittens, you shall have no pie!!!