I left my cat in San Francisco
with John, and his sister, Miss Doe;
so when I tried “to stand and stare”
I had to stop ’cos Sid weren’t there.
Poor Sid, I swapped ’im for a gun
to shoot some breakfast for me mum,
but when the cornflakes wouldn’t fight
I shot their nest with great delight.
He said to me, once, as he flew
that cats with wings have dreadful glue
which is why, when rain’s not light,
their wings de–feline in mid–flight.
This absence was acknowledgement
of what I told me management:
“this stuff, you know, can never pass;
’tis sunlight shining from me arse”.
In that chilly San Francisco
I sold my cat to Alice, Miss Doe.
Ten years later he’s snuck back
and now, again, dull words, I hack.
Something awful this way comes
inspired by evolution’s sums,
biting love and biting cheer—
you bet I’m drinking too much beer.