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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Mythology · #1852160
The tale of the warrior-poet Punk the cat's final encounter with immortal String.
Punk here again and while it’s been said,
I’ve never even attempted to resist my gift of gab,
I have to admit even I’m a little reticent to
Tell this next chapter of my tale of String.
It’s because what happens next is so thoroughly
Preposterous, blasphemous, and maudlin I dread
The inevitable ridicule I will have to suffer at the paws
Of my so called friends, when they hear of this dreck.

But since no cat has my tongue, except for, well me,
I shall indeed tell it, even though you won’t believe it.
I preface by saying it’s 100% pure unembellishment,
Redundantly adding every word’s the doggone truth.
And so, if you will, do me the favor of letting myself get
So close I’m within whispering distance of your ear.
I’ll tell you of how I met my nemesis, String, once again,
But this time, strangely enough, it happens at my death.

A time came when, one by one, my brothers and sisters
Were killed, and I soon followed them, the last to go.
My inky blackness – my cloak of invisibility, which had
Served me so well in the past, became my fatal detriment.
One night I crossed a path of men, and ironically it was I,
Not them, for whom the fateful encounter was unlucky,
In a blinding light, a squeal of rubber, I was picked up and
Quite forcefully tossed, into mistress-master’s front yard.

I tried to be brave, but I have to admit,
I did not conduct myself with dignity stoic.
Lying there in the quiet, cold darkness, alone, in pain.
I think you’d agree a little, pitiful yowling was warranted.
Then I realized I was not alone. Ah good, I thought,
It’s mistress-master, coming to take me into her custody,
To put everything back into its place, as it should be.

But it was not her and my terror grew again.
Then I saw it was String himself slithering toward me.
He had come, no doubt, to torment me as I lay dying.
To wickedly gloat over me in my hopeless predicament.
Then, snakelike, he began to coil himself around me and,
To my surprise, the pain, the fear, disappeared completely.
He told me not to worry. Everything will be all right,
And I felt myself drift off into a dreamy, peaceful sleep.
Consequently, I remember nothing else of that night.

I know what you are wondering and that is this.
How could I, Punk, be telling you this if I’m dead?
Well, apparently, and I suppose not surprisingly,
You are not cognizant of your current slumbering state,
Your dreams have summoned me to tell you this tale.
Now I’m not trying to sell the old cliché – God is real and
Appears to us in a form we can accept or understand.
All I’m saying is what happened to me one October night.
And so if you’re thinking anything along the lines of,
This is such a thoroughly preposterous, blasphemous,
And maudlin story; it’s beyond all rational, sensible belief,
Then I’d like to gently remind you, I already told you this.
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