We’ve fallen out, the cat and I,
For gratitude’s illusion
Has been destroyed and left no doubt
That it was mere delusion.
I gave the benefit of doubt,
Accepting there was reason
For cats to bring their keepers gifts
…But now it’s hunting season.
The rat, that I could understand,
(Though hiding it behind the couch
Is something worth debating…)
The baby fieldmouse, still alive…
Or maybe just a vole,
With careful panic from my son
Was caught, released, still whole.
The blue-tit was a tragedy,
Pale yellow feathers flew.
The baby starling, minus head,
Appeared out of the blue.
The robin was the final straw,
Just laid there on the floor,
But newly fledged, its heart exposed,
His voice would sing no more.
So we had words, the cat and I,
I made my feelings plain
And told the homicidal cat
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