clarakatalin

[With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
whose poem, “The Village Blacksmith,” was partial inspiration for this.]

Under a spreading Christmas tree
The village kitty lies;
The kitty, mighty cat is he,
With large and glaring eyes;
The talons of his furry paws
Are sharp as kitchen knives.

His hair is thick, and orange, and long;
His face is rather tan.
His tongue is wet; he won’t forget
To lick his owner’s hand.
And also licks the same one’s face,
For to lick he thinks is grand.

Week in, week out, from morn ’til night,
You can hear his vig’rous purr;
Can hear his little kitty bell
Whenever he does stir.
He slinks around his owner’s house
And loves his owner well.

And children coming home from school
Look in at open door;
They love to see his glaring eyes
And hear his mighty purr,
And watch as he does stretch and turn
And lick his lengthy fur.

He won’t go Sunday to the church,
For it is not too near;
He’ll miss the preaching, and the choir —
His hissing could cause fear.
But singing in the village choir
His owners do with cheer.

They sound to him like chorus strange,
Yowling but not feline.
He’d like to throw a clod of dirt
Into their open eyes;
But with his furry paw he wipes
A speck out of his eyes.

Rolling — stretching — yawning,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees the food put out,
Each evening sees it go;
Something eaten, something caught,
He’s earned his night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy cat,
For lessons thou has taught!
If I could sit around all day,
I hope I’d not be caught!
I better not so lazy be
Or poor will be my lot.