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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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This page by:   lezismore-with 2020 vision
Last Modified: 01-12-21 @ 4:25 pm EST
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