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Thursday, April 19, 2007


A pear-shaped cat quarrels with his muse

A feline of bounteous girth,
I surveyed my backyard’s barren earth.
When I set it to rhyme,
It was less than sublime.
What, you expected Wordsworth?

The flower pots were mired in brown crud;
The tulips, frost nipped in the bud.
But the wandering chive
Had managed to thrive
At least something wasn’t a dud.

But my muse is as tough as a mongrel
With which I continually quarrel.
While I stalk pantherlike
Inspiration may strike.
Meanwhile, my verse is but doggrel.

Do see the Friday Ark at Modulator, and the Carnival of the Cats at my friend KT Cat's Scratching Post.



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