A tomcat fretted; he was trapped a crypt,
Whilst led lined caskets all around him dripped.
No ghost or ghoul or demon did he find;
Nor rat or Raven or three mice blind.
Franticly pacing on a stone-cold floor,
Pitifully scratching at the padlocked door.
Pitch-black nothing with naught to see;
Solitary confinement; just couldn't break free
Owl’s still waiting by a pea green boat,
To sail with her dearest; in the warm furry coat,
And “Here kitty, kitty” they’ll be calling back home,
Milk’s turning sour, and puppy’s stole your throne.
Portly little kitty; that's so under fed,
Calm yourself down or you’ll wake the dead.
You shouldn't really cringe, or hiss with fear,
One of those nine lives will get you out of there.
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