The Poet's Cat

The poet’s cat is so sedate; she’s happy with her feline fate.
She snoozes on the garden wall, too dignified to fret or fall.
When strolling ‘cross the busy street, her heart maintains a steady beat.
She’s so serene and so seraphic, fearless of the teeming traffic.

The poet’s cat lies in the sun when poet’s day at work’s begun.
(He works, you see, so schemes and sweats. Has bills to pay, including vet’s!)
She flicks her tail and seems to say, "Leave me to have a lazy day.
I’ll dabble with idyllic dream, while you regard your work regime.”

The poet’s cat is fond of rhyme. On poet’s lap she’ll always climb
when he sits down to read his Keats; she’s unconcerned it’s time she eats!
As still as statue in a trance, at bowl of food, she will not glance.
When he reads, “A thing of beauty,” she looks at him a little snooty.

The poet’s cat is very clever. When she hears, “a joy forever.”
She digs her claws into his knee, as if to say, “Now worship me!”
When it’s time for bed and basket, foolish question – she must ask it:
“Do cats die young? You need to know!” (She pities her poor poet so!)

The poet’s cat then dreams a while, of cat once worshipped down the Nile.
A goddess, clothed in feline fur; a princess, not too proud to purr.
Then she smiles, as if she knows, the Afterlife is where she goes
when this life’s through; to live one more, on heaven’s sleek and shiny shore.