If My Cat Wrote Poetry
1
O KIBBLE! my Kibble! our fearful meal is done;
The babe has o’erturn’d each bowl, the prize we sought is gone;
The dish is near, the rattle I hear, my belly’s lowly rumbling,
While follow eyes the steady broom, the mother grim and cleaning:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the floor my Kibble lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2
O Kibble! my Kibble! rise from the rubbish bin;
Rise up-for you my tail is flung-for you my warbling trills;
For you catnip and ribbon strands-for you the mouse a-batting;
For you they purr, the feline mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Kibble! dear victuals!
This paw beneath your bits;
It is some dream that on the floor,
You've fallen as crumbled grit .

3
My Kibble does not answer, 'tis made of rendered lamb;
My kibble does not feel my paw his nerves are all ground up;
The rest is anchor'd safe and sound, its zipper pressed to close;
From fearful babe, the zippered bag doth protect;
Exult, O floors, and gleam, O bowls!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk where my Kibble lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
- posted by Anna Trueblood @ 9:28 PM