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To a Cat ©

Marc R. Sherland
Glasgow, Scotland
2005

Swank, you are a sleeky slanky creature,
As want as I, an' yet apt tae feature,
Upon tha luxury o' ma ain chair,
As if it were thine own,
An I tae glower, simply you tae stare,
Wi silent snicker moan.

Sometimes ya groom yersel, as if a Queen,
Wi careful stroke, yer practice art tae preen,
Then lick yersel, where ithers widnae go,
Fer fear o' etiquette,
An I, though I splash watter, clean tae know,
Yet you fine praise will get.

Yer pounce upon puir shadows, tae practice,
So mice, a scouri-in yer widnae miss,
When aft they start, wi terra hastie,
As wise they are tae scoot,
For grace is foreign, you show no mercy,
Oot chibbing claws yer shoot.

Yet when I think, upon yer place on earth,
That rises to the rank that goes wi birth,
I must admit we idolise yer fate,
Wi charm o' stupid polish,
An picture you wi wit, an clever gait,
That truth wid abolish.

For ony toon has moggy ferral mews,
Who scavenge hope o' life but often lose,
Abandoned, cursed an left to fend fer self,
Roond bins spilt, spolit produce,
An cruel fleas who sap their source o' wealth,
Are victors yet, let loose.

An on tha lonely lamposts in tha toons,
Are pictures o' yer mugs; yer stupid loons,
When wandered fram tha place of safety,
Yer pranced fer fun tae greet,
Then oan pavement gutters, crushed an bloody,
Yer lanky bodies meat.

An yet I guess; an here must gie us pause;
You didna care, but fer the care o' claws,
An when tha next dinner will fill yer plate.
You scratch yer collar.
But I foresee, an worry at ma fate,
An ev'ry hard earned dollar.

So feline, slink wi panthaís grace an poise, Erfter wi slashing, furniture detroys, Or pishing on tha flair withoot a look, Iíll raise ma voice or haun; Thaen under airm tae vet maun, you get took, Tae end wi kitty pawn.


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