An Ode To Pepe’s Cat

You haven't lost your touch Dawn

It’s not easy writing Cat-astrophic poetry, is it?

My dearest cat boy Jackson ~

You look healthy, like you don’t weigh a ton.

Have you read up on history? about Attila The Hun?

Are there folks you don’t like? People you shun?

Do you belong to the NRA? Do you own a gun?

In your spare time, what do you do for fun?

Have you ever watched How The West Was Won?

Would you eat a donut or a honey bun?

If you had been born a catholic girl, would you have become a nun?
(You do have the black and white habit thing going on)

Jackson... you silly little cat!
You don’t like mice, but would you chase a rat?

Would you consider wearing a tuxedo, spats and top hat?
You’ll be slender, you won’t look fat.

Everyone will say “that’s where it’s at”!
Just don’t let it go to your head - don’t become a brat.

And if you go to college, don’t join a frat.

Given the title of this thread I thought you might like an encore of this:

Old Blue Feeds A Stray
In English country gardens, so they tell me, you can find
The secret signs that tramps have left for others of their kind,
Signs that say “you’re sure to get a kindly welcome here”
Or “This householder’s a dragon, I’d advise you to stay clear.”
And I’ve come to the conclusion, having thought the whole thing through,
That cats here in Australia employ this system too.
I’d swear the buggers have a sign near Old Blue’s garden gate
That says “This bloke’s a pushover. You’ve hit the jackpot, mate.”

My journey to enlightenment began a few weeks back
We were on Old Blue’s verandah with a coldie and a snack
And as we sat there chatting, all at once, to my surprise,
A cat strolled through the garden – one of quite impressive size:
A haughty looking, multicoloured furball of a cat.
“Strewth, mate!” I said to Bluey, “Where the hell did you find that,”
“The poor old sod’s a stray”, he said,” it’s round here day and night.”
I call it Feather Duster – ‘cause it looks the part all right.

I couldn’t let the poor thing starve – I’ve got a heart you know,
So occasionally I feed it just the odd small meal or so.”
“The odd small meal”: I had to laugh when Bluey told me that.
I pointed to the row of bowls alongside his doormat.
He looked a little sheepish “Oh, that’s just me little test.
To see which brand of catfood the poor creature likes the best.
It needs some little comforts, living as it does,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure it’s sleeping down the back in me old shed.”

And that, folks, was the moment I first heard the warning bell,
For the cat I’d seen was unmistakably a tortoiseshell.
And I knew it was a certainty, not just some old wives’ tale.
That tortoiseshells were very seldom likely to be male.
I voiced my fear; I looked at Blue; and he looked back at me.
“Oh, shit,” He said “I think, perhaps we’d better go and see.”

Blue’s old shed is derelict, it’s storage days are done,
He hasn’t used it since he bought his brand new Stratco one.
The window glass is broken and the door hangs open wide,
But despite the long abandonment there’s not much room inside.
It’s full of rotting newspapers and junk in plastic bags.
A basket on the workbench holds forgotten cleaning rags.
And there, amidst old jocks and socks and worn out woollen mittens,
Was where we found the secret nest of Feather Duster’s kittens.

I looked at Blue, he looked at me “I know’, he said “I know.
They’re small and cute and fluffy, but, you’re right, they’ll have to go.
But how do we dispose of them, it makes me poor heart weep
Just to think of simply drowning ‘em or putting ‘em to sleep.”
I mentioned the shire Ranger, but Blue stopped me with a frown.
“If that sod gets his hands on them, he’ll have them all put down.
So we went back home to my place and I combed the internet’
In search of a solution that we hadn’t thought of yet.

At last I found a rescue group: we rang them for advice,
And they said they’d take the kittens – and the mother – for a price.
They had a list of clients wanting kittens so it seemed,
But we’d have to wait a week or two until they could be weaned.
So Old Blue watched those kittens like a fussy mother hen,
And kept feeding Feather Duster, till at last the day came when
He rang me up and told me, without fuss or carry-on,
“The rescue people came today and picked them up. They’ve gone.”

He didn’t sound too cut up, but with Blue it’s hard to say,
So I thought I’d better pop around and check he was okay.
I knocked at his front door and I called out “Hey Blue, it’s me.”
I thought he’d come to open it - he always does, you see.
But he called back. “In the lounge room mate. I can’t get up just now,
But come in, grab yourself a beer and join me anyhow.”
So, anxiously, I stepped inside, uncertain what I’d find,
But the tableau there before me - well, it kind of rocked my mind,

For there sat Blue upon the lounge, contented as you please,
And Feather Duster, fast asleep, lay purring on his knees.
That ‘take the mother too’ idea had never gone ahead,
The cunning cat had led Blue down the garden path instead.
The artful little minx had wormed her way into his heart,
And I’d swear that she’d been planning this right from the very start.
She’s microchipped and registered, she's been to see the vet.
And Blue has somehow got himself another flamin’ pet.

Ha, ha joono. I was just going to post something like that after reading this thread.

GL needs to take herself and a copy of that RU post of hers to a psychiatrist.

Ode To Buck

Why do you eat
A moth
In front of me
When I ask you
To stop?

🦋

i would like to make a rhyme about buck but i fear it could have rude words in it...

You can’t rhyme with Buck?
WTF?

But seriously that puppy is Lily Jr.

G shep, Doberman and chow.