by Edgar Allen Poe's Pussycat
Copyright 2007, Sarah Hartwell (with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)

On a midnight unenchanted, when pounding rain by gale was slanted,
I awakened to the ranting of he whom I catch mice for.
Inebriated and unshaven, his voice was hoarse, his tone was craven,
For he was canting at a Raven perched upon his chamber door.
"Corvus corax, rather tasty," and I padded soft but hasty,
In search of sport.

Silently, while he was talking, by shadowed wainscot I was stalking,
Towards Raven's roost atop an awful bust of Pallas I abhor,
While corvus and the poet chattered: berated, ranted, beseeched, flattered,
From my fell form the house mice scattered as I crossed the corridor,
My grey shape hid by flick'ring shadow, crossed the rug on muffled paw
My mind now set on avian gore.

Still the Raven crowed and fluttered, wings clattering like storm-torn shutters,
The croaking caw just mocked and muttered at my master - "Nevermore."
My master, now insane and haunted, shuddered as the corvid taunted,
Cried out despairing, without warning, mourning for his lost Lenore.
And I, a liquid shadow lurking, my hunter's instincts never shirking,
Paused, mid-step, with lifted paw.

Clinging to the gloomy umbra, while the sky rolled distant thunder,
I moved unnoticed under oaken desks and open drawer,
The poet raved, the raven taunted, while I onto a surface vaulted,
Inched closer to the bird that flaunted itself upon the chamber door,
Till on the a bookshelf, now much nearer, the Raven in my vision clearer,
I could complete my hunter's chore.

Tail twitching in anticipation of the demise of that raven,
Even Poe's mind would have savoured that which fate now had in store.
Their insane discourse the duo kept up; cat the hunter tensed and leapt up
Took down the feathered fiend with fang and claw
Bone and sinew then was rending, till the damned bird's life was ended,
Dropped beak and feet uneaten on the floor.

Soon I was a cat well sated, full of the Raven he so hated,
That made him mourn still for his lost Lenore,
In the chamber, feathers scattered, no more Raven now to chatter,
Mocking words from its false safety up above the chamber door.
The bust whose features I so detested, I overtoppled from its recess
While purring "Pallas nevermore."

Fitfully the poet's sleeping, though I fancy I could hear him weeping,
Into his mind dark mem'ries seeping, mem'ries of his lost Lenore,
In my basket I am thinking, if he would only stop his drinking,
We'd have some peace and quiet once more,
Outside the windows rain ceased falling, the morning chorus commenced calling,
But one bird would call nevermore.

Fluffy Gee
by WH Pawden
Copyright 2007, Sarah Hartwell

Let me tell you a little story
About poor Fluffy G;
They got her from a pet shop
And she had no pedigree.

She'd got bright yellow crossed eyes,
Her nose was flat and small,
Her lower jaw was jutted out
And she had no tail at all.

She was very badly inbred,
She increased a pet shop's wealth,
Her mother bred four times a year
And all kittens had poor health.

She'd been bought by Mrs Watson,
Who cured her of her fleas,
But no amount of Kit-E-Kat
Could cure genetic disease.

She dreamed she was a Persian,
That her legs were straight, not bent,
That she had a silky plumy coat
That rippled as she went.

And all the judges loved her
At the "National" and "Supreme",
Awarded cups and rosettes,
But alas, 'twas just a dream.

For sure her owner loved her,
But her bones were bowed and bent
And local children laughed at her
When on her walks she went.

Then Fluffy G stopped eating
And began to feel unwell,
Her nose began to dribble
And her breath began to smell.

She was packed into a basket
Transported to the vet
He looked poor Fluffy over,
And dolefully he said:

"There's lumps within her belly,
And a tumour in her neck,
And even without cancer,
This cat's a walking wreck;

She's got some bad mutations,
Hence all the deformed bones;
That's why her tail is absent
And why her mouth won't close.

Was she weaned too early?
Was she the litter's runt?
A dreadful start to early life
Would cause her to be stunted."

He lay Fluffy on the table,
And he gave the fatal dose,
No more dreams for Fluffy
Of prizes won at shows.

Her owner donated Fluffy
To the school of anatomy
Where her twisted bones are mounted
For the student vets to see.