JUST CAT
Wehave a cat of common gray—In fact a plain and everydayOld Tab—to be exact I’d sayShe’s common in most every way.She’s common in her manners quite,She’s never known the word “polite,”When dining with her neighbors,mightTo her cat mind is alwaysright.She’s common in her diet too—Cheese, liver, milk, or cold beef-stew—And when at last she finds she’s through,She licks her chops as most cats do.She’s common for the reason thatNo chipmunk, gopher, mouse or ratIs sure she won’t cave in his slatTo decorate our kitchen-mat.She’s common in the way she’ll toyWith life—decoy and then annoyAnd torture with cool, fiendish joyThe thing she would at last destroy.She’s common in the motherlyDevotion with which she can seeHer kits lick up the blood—to beEventually as cruel as she.She’s common in the attitudeWhich she’s persistently pursuedToward rearing up a meowing brood—Twice every year the stunt’s renewed.She’s common in the view she’d shareWith all those poor folks who declareThat the community should careFor all the young they choose to bear.Indeed so common is she here,That should we count each little dearThat’s littered every fiscal year,(Her seventh winter’s drawing near),Allowing six to every score,(At times it’s less but mostly more),The tally would not figure lowerThan somewhere say—near eighty-four.But as four out of every sixAre ferried ’cross the River StyxAnd swiftly rendered good for nixBefore they register their kicks,And whereas those that still remainIn order to relieve the strainAnd thus assuage a mother’s painUntil her grief is on the wane,Are likewise held beneath the spout,Or soon or later parcelled outTo someone who beyond a doubtEnjoys the feel of cats about,It will be fitting to observeThat we have done our best to serveThis purring matron through each curveOf her plain, boundless, common nerve.We’ve done our best—as one may see,To quell each base antipathy,That she—our Tab might still be freeTo rear her endless progeny.
Wehave a cat of common gray—In fact a plain and everydayOld Tab—to be exact I’d sayShe’s common in most every way.She’s common in her manners quite,She’s never known the word “polite,”When dining with her neighbors,mightTo her cat mind is alwaysright.She’s common in her diet too—Cheese, liver, milk, or cold beef-stew—And when at last she finds she’s through,She licks her chops as most cats do.She’s common for the reason thatNo chipmunk, gopher, mouse or ratIs sure she won’t cave in his slatTo decorate our kitchen-mat.She’s common in the way she’ll toyWith life—decoy and then annoyAnd torture with cool, fiendish joyThe thing she would at last destroy.She’s common in the motherlyDevotion with which she can seeHer kits lick up the blood—to beEventually as cruel as she.She’s common in the attitudeWhich she’s persistently pursuedToward rearing up a meowing brood—Twice every year the stunt’s renewed.She’s common in the view she’d shareWith all those poor folks who declareThat the community should careFor all the young they choose to bear.Indeed so common is she here,That should we count each little dearThat’s littered every fiscal year,(Her seventh winter’s drawing near),Allowing six to every score,(At times it’s less but mostly more),The tally would not figure lowerThan somewhere say—near eighty-four.But as four out of every sixAre ferried ’cross the River StyxAnd swiftly rendered good for nixBefore they register their kicks,And whereas those that still remainIn order to relieve the strainAnd thus assuage a mother’s painUntil her grief is on the wane,Are likewise held beneath the spout,Or soon or later parcelled outTo someone who beyond a doubtEnjoys the feel of cats about,It will be fitting to observeThat we have done our best to serveThis purring matron through each curveOf her plain, boundless, common nerve.We’ve done our best—as one may see,To quell each base antipathy,That she—our Tab might still be freeTo rear her endless progeny.
Wehave a cat of common gray—In fact a plain and everydayOld Tab—to be exact I’d sayShe’s common in most every way.
She’s common in her manners quite,She’s never known the word “polite,”When dining with her neighbors,mightTo her cat mind is alwaysright.
She’s common in her diet too—Cheese, liver, milk, or cold beef-stew—And when at last she finds she’s through,She licks her chops as most cats do.
She’s common for the reason thatNo chipmunk, gopher, mouse or ratIs sure she won’t cave in his slatTo decorate our kitchen-mat.
She’s common in the way she’ll toyWith life—decoy and then annoyAnd torture with cool, fiendish joyThe thing she would at last destroy.
She’s common in the motherlyDevotion with which she can seeHer kits lick up the blood—to beEventually as cruel as she.
She’s common in the attitudeWhich she’s persistently pursuedToward rearing up a meowing brood—Twice every year the stunt’s renewed.
She’s common in the view she’d shareWith all those poor folks who declareThat the community should careFor all the young they choose to bear.
Indeed so common is she here,That should we count each little dearThat’s littered every fiscal year,(Her seventh winter’s drawing near),
Allowing six to every score,(At times it’s less but mostly more),The tally would not figure lowerThan somewhere say—near eighty-four.
But as four out of every sixAre ferried ’cross the River StyxAnd swiftly rendered good for nixBefore they register their kicks,
And whereas those that still remainIn order to relieve the strainAnd thus assuage a mother’s painUntil her grief is on the wane,
Are likewise held beneath the spout,Or soon or later parcelled outTo someone who beyond a doubtEnjoys the feel of cats about,
It will be fitting to observeThat we have done our best to serveThis purring matron through each curveOf her plain, boundless, common nerve.
We’ve done our best—as one may see,To quell each base antipathy,That she—our Tab might still be freeTo rear her endless progeny.