He’s just a lump, a rag-doll flump
a cuddly fur-ball sleeping
’til there’s a bump, then see him jump
he hides then comes acreeping
along the wall, trying to be small
which isn’t easy for him
’cause all-in-all, he’s long and tall
one never can ignore him!
A scaredy-cat, that’s where he’s at
despite his dreadful size
he’s never fat, dim as a bat
the opposite of wise.
Safe from the sound, he makes a bound
upon my waiting lap
where with frown, he settles down
returning to his nap.
TS Eliot was famous for many things, one of which is his cat poems. They’re famous in part because his more serious work is so damned melancholy, full of images of age and helplessness and decay.
Given my own stuff tends toward the somber, and Hilary recently posted an extraordinarily sad image, I thought it would be fun to write something a little more frivolous than usual, although I have to say I’m not entirely pleased with the results.
I really do have a cat named Yogurt, though, who is a big lovable dunder-head who starts at the least sound and is afraid of the wind as it stirs the grass in what passes for my back yard.