Patches is a cat
a very pampered cat
She sleeps on silk cushiness and eats fillets of mouse
Charming everyone, she has the run of the house
She hacks up hairballs on the rug
once I saw her eat a slug
covered in fleas
she's quite hard to please
But she's our cat
Our very pampered cat
April 13th, 2012
Patches dosen't really sleep on silk cushiness or eat fillet of mouse, but the rest of the poem is actually true.
Yes, she did really eat a slug.
This poem is based on a song we wrote about Patches called "The Pampered Cat".
My response to you has always been focused.
This has gladly not been over looked by you.
I have become thoughtlessly biddable and amenable for you, especially in the morning light.
I am consenting, compelled yet not obliged ..........
You have discovered I am nothing but a girl from a circus.
I never tried to hide it. You weren't looking before.
Although I am a fan of amusements, fetes and even frolics, I do refrain from favoring all tricks.
My indulgence in foolery is a sport I plan to employ for a while yet.
Do I care for you to join me and see if I can defy your desire for extracurricular activities, as well as being your carer?
Is this a task a clown would pretend was a harmless challenge.
Perhaps not, perhaps so.
My roots are raw and loyal to the art of play.
I need you to know this and hold it.
A Spanish fly will not be able to satisfy my ears alone?
Sincerity can be a sharp business sometimes.
Obedience to attachment brings around a credulous familiarity thus a dependency
It could easily keep me awake to stare at many moons
You have seen me stumble and look at you gingerly more than once now
You are not even delicate but you can be shrewd even when you struggle with expectation.
There is a soberness about your beauty I find pleasingly magnetic.
When you leave me alone without your mighty graze
I without question appreciate and yearn for your persuasions and rough tenderness.
Your actions maybe more savory in the afternoons
compared with your visits to my buoyant dreams but you do kindly hold open doors.
There were wounds covering the small of my back
Where you stabbed me time and time again
I handed you trust
Watched you dice it like onions
The fumes exhausting my tear ducts
Doing everything I can from letting them flow
The knife is on the ground
Rusted and tired
Those wounds have scared over
I know now what I didn't know then
That trust is not to be catered
It is to be earned
You've exhausted your rations
It'll be difficult to watch you hunger for the taste of my trust,
but I am stronger now than I was yesterday
That, I can thank you for