The Cats of
Spring
(With apologies to Swinburne, not that he needs
them.)
by Con Chapman
When the cats of
spring are on winter’s traces,
The sleep-addled chipmunks
emerge from their cribs
To see hungry bewhiskered feline faces
Licking their chops and
tying on bibs.
While the brown-backed robin goes a-worm
stalking
The cats creep up making less sound than
walking;
He’s going to get it, in just a few
paces,
Believe me, I know them—I’m
telling no fib.
Cats are hunters who need no spring
training,
They’re out there first
thing, imprinting the snow,
getting paws muddy when it’s April
raining.
Then tracking it in,
wherever they go.
If you’re a mouse who towards
suicide is tending
My cats can help you to meet
your ending.
They've assisted lots of critters whose
lives were waning
Though I’m not sure
that all were quite ready to go. |
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