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Best Famous Cat Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Cat poems. This is a select list of the best famous Cat poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Cat poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of cat poems.

Search for the best famous Cat poems, articles about Cat poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Cat poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

by Edward Lear | |

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will.
" So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

by | |

The Death of the Hindu

Chin cupped
on the ancient bone of his
he spread five fingers
to the world:
and like a cat on zither strings
the hoarse voice of his fathers
issues from his forgotten children:
now he picks one tick
from the back of that suckling cow:
his failing fingers
find not the strength
to crush

Not a single eyelash twitters
pass him by
pass him

'Wake not a man asleep
And tell him he has
Nothing to eat.

by | |

Dame Trot And Her Cat

Dame Trot and her cat
  Led a peaceable life,
When they were not troubled
  With other folks' strife.

When Dame had her dinner
  Pussy would wait,
And was sure to receive
  A nice piece from her plate.

More great poems below...

by | |

Ding, Dong, Bell

Ding, dong, bell,
Pussy's in the well!
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Lin.

Who pulled her out?
Little Johnny Stout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To try to drown poor pussy-cat.
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father's barn!

by | |

Going To St. Ives

As I was going to St.
I met a man with seven wives.
Every wife had seven sacks,
Every sack had seven cats,
Every cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were going to St.

by | |

Old Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
  To give her poor dog a bone;
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare,
  And so the poor dog had none.

She went to the baker's
  To buy him some bread;
When she came back
  The dog was dead.

She went to the undertaker's
  To buy him a coffin;
When she got back
  The dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish
  To get him some tripe;
When she came back
  He was smoking a pipe.

She went to the alehouse
  To get him some beer;
When she came back
  The dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavern
  For white wine and red;
When she came back
  The dog stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's
  To buy him a hat;
When she came back
  He was feeding the cat.

She went to the barber's
  To buy him a wig;
When she came back
  He was dancing a jig.

She went to the fruiterer's
  To buy him some fruit;
When she came back
  He was playing the flute.

She went to the tailor's
  To buy him a coat;
When she came back
  He was riding a goat.

She went to the cobbler's
  To buy him some shoes;
When she came back
  He was reading the news.

She went to the sempster's
  To buy him some linen;
When she came back
  The dog was a-spinning.

She went to the hosier's
  To buy him some hose;
When she came back
  He was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsy,
  The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant,"
  The dog said, "Bow-wow.

by | |

Pussy-Cat And Queen

"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat,
    Where have you been?"
"I've been to London
    To look at the Queen.
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat,
    What did you there?"
"I frightened a little mouse
    Under the chair.

by | |

Pussy-Cat And The Dumplings

Pussy-cat ate the dumplings, the dumplings,
    Pussy-cat ate the dumplings.
Mamma stood by, and cried, "Oh, fie!
    Why did you eat the dumplings?"

by | |

Pussy-Cat By The Fire

Pussy-cat sits by the fire;
    How can she be fair?
In walks the little dog;
    Says: "Pussy, are you there?
How do you do, Mistress Pussy?
    Mistress Pussy, how d'ye do?"
"I thank you kindly, little dog,
    I fare as well as you!"

by | |

Pussy-Cat Mew

Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal,
And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.
Poor Pussy's weeping, she'll have no more milk
Until her best petticoat's mended with silk.

by | |

Ride Away, Ride Away

Ride away, ride away,
  Johnny shall ride,
And he shall have pussy-cat
  Tied to one side;
And he shall have little dog
  Tied to the other,
And Johnny shall ride
  To see his grandmother.

by | |

Sing, Sing


Sing, sing, what shall I sing?
Cat's run away with the pudding-string!
Do, do, what shall I do?
The cat has bitten it quite in two.

by | |

The Cat And The Fiddle


    Hey, diddle, diddle!
    The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
    The little dog laughed
    To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

by | |

The Crooked Sixpence

There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence beside a crooked stile;
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

by | |

The Kilkenny Cats

There were once two cats of Kilkenny.
Each thought there was one cat too many;
So they fought and they fit,
And they scratched and they bit,
  Till, excepting their nails,
  And the tips of their tails,
Instead of two cats, there weren't any.

by Gaius Valerius Catullus | |

Iuuentius Cycle

O qui flosculus es Iuuentiorum,
non horum modo sed quot aut fuerunt
aut posthac aliis erunt in annis.
mallem diuitias Midae dedisses isti cui neque seruus est neque arca quam sic te sineres ab illo amari.
`Qui? Non est homo bellus?' inquies.
Est: sed bello huic neque seruus est neque arca.
Hoc tu quam libet abice eleuaque: Nec seruum tamen ille habet neque arcam.
MELLITOS oculos tuos Iuuenti siquis me sinat usque basiare usque ad milia basiem trecenta, Nec mi umquam uidear satur futurus, non si densior aridis aristis sit nostrae seges osculationis.
NEMONE in tanto potuit populo esse, Iuuenti, bellus homo, quem tu deligere inciperes.
Praeterquam iste tuus moribunda ab sede Pisauri hospes inaurata palladior statua, qui tibi nunc cordi est, quem tu praeponere nobis audes.
Et nescis quod facinus facias? SURRIPUI tibi dum ludis, mellite Iuuenti suauiolum dulci dulcius ambrosia.
Verum id non impune tuli, namque amplius horam suffixum in summa me memini esse cruce dum tibi me purgo nec possum fletibus ullis tantillum uestrae demere saeuitiae.
Nam simul id factum est multis diluta labella guttis abstersisti omnibus articulis.
ne quicquam nostro contractum ex ore maneret, tamquam commictae spurca saliua lupae.
praeterea infestum misero me tradere amore non cessasti omni excruciarique modo, ut mi ex ambrosia mutatum iam foret illud suauiolum tristi tristius elleboro.
quam quoniam poenam misero proponis amori numquam iam posthac basia surripiam.

by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Mr. Mistoffelees

 You ought to know Mr.
Mistoffelees! The Original Conjuring Cat-- (There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don't scoff.
All his Inventions are off his own bat.
There's no such Cat in the metropolis; He holds all the patent monopolies For performing suprising illusions And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestidigitation And at legerdemain He'll defy examination And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn From Mr.
Mistoffelees' Conjuring Turn.
Presto! Away we go! And we all say: OH! Well I never! Was there ever A Cat so clever As Magical Mr.
Mistoffelees! He is quiet and small, he is black From his ears to the tip of his tail; He can creep through the tiniest crack, He can walk on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack, He is equally cunning with dice; He is always deceiving you into believing That he's only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick with a cork Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste; If you look for a knife or a fork And you think it is merely misplaced-- You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn! But you'll find it next week lying out on the lawn.
And we all say: OH! Well I never! Was there ever A Cat so clever As Magical Mr.
Mistoffelees! His manner is vague and aloof, You would think there was nobody shyer-- But his voice has been heard on the roof When he was curled up by the fire.
And he's sometimes been heard by the fire When he was about on the roof-- (At least we all heard that somebody purred) Which is incontestable proof Of his singular magical powers: And I have known the family to call Him in from the garden for hours, While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago this phenomenal Cat Produced seven kittens right out of a hat! And we all said: OH! Well I never! Did you ever Know a Cat so clever As Magical Mr.

by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

The Rum Tum Tugger

 The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat, If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat, If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any call for me to shout it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it! The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He's always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer, But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any use for you to doubt it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it! The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast: His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast; When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers, For he only likes what he finds for himself; So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears, If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing, The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle; But he'll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing, For there's nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any need for me to spout it: For he will do As he do do And theres no doing anything about it!

by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

The Naming Of Cats

 The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey-- All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter-- But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum- Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover-- But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

The Ad-Dressing Of Cats

 You've read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see That Cats are much like you and me And other people whom we find Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad And some are good and some are bad And some are better, some are worse-- But all may be described in verse.
You've seen them both at work and games, And learnt about their proper names, Their habits and their habitat: But How would you ad-dress a Cat? So first, your memory I'll jog, And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie, Some potted grouse, or salmon paste-- He's sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit Of eating nothing else but rabbit, And when he's finished, licks his paws So's not to waste the onion sauce.
) A Cat's entitled to expect These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim, And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that: And there's how you AD-DRESS A CAT.

by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town

 Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones--
In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs--he has eight or nine clubs, For he's the St.
James's Street Cat! He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street In his coat of fastidious black: No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St.
James's the smartest of names is The name of this Brummell of Cats; And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to By Bustopher Jones in white spats! His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational And it is against the rules For any one Cat to belong both to that And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season He is found, not at Fox's, but Blimpy's; He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben'son To the Pothunter's succulent bones; And just before noon's not a moment too soon To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he's seen in a hurry there's probably curry At the Siamese--or at the Glutton; If he looks full of gloom then he's lunched at the Tomb On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher's day- At one club or another he's found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes He has grown unmistakably round.
He's a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder, And he's putting on weight every day: But he's so well preserved because he's observed All his life a routine, so he'll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: "I shall last out my time" Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!

by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Whispers of Immortality

 WEBSTER was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls Stared from the sockets of the eyes! He knew that thought clings round dead limbs Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another Who found no substitute for sense, To seize and clutch and penetrate; Expert beyond experience, He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone.
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye Is underlined for emphasis; Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar Compels the scampering marmoset With subtle effluence of cat; Grishkin has a maisonette; The sleek Brazilian jaguar Does not in its arboreal gloom Distil so rank a feline smell As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities Circumambulate her charm; But our lot crawls between dry ribs To keep our metaphysics warm.

by Brian P Cleary | |


Some cats like to prowl, 
and some even growl,
While others would rather take naps.
But my Mrs.
Mittens -- an Internet Kitten -- is fonder of laptops than laps.
Unlike other cats, This one downloads and chats And is constantly checking her email.
An ad she has posted Has recently boasted She's a young, single Siamese female.
With paws soft and quick, She'll type and she'll click, do some research, or maybe some shopping.
She bookmarks new sites.
She surfs and she writes, Or she'll scan in some photos for swapping.
It's simply absurd.
She's an Internet nerd, Who ignores all the rest of the house.
What cat would admit It would ever see fit To enjoy so much time with a mouse?

by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

MacDougal Street

 AS I went walking up and down to take the evening air,
(Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)
I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;
("Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by!")

The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,
(Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)
And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat;
(Lord, God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)

The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a fair,
(Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)
She had haggled from the fruit-man of his rotting ware;
(I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!) 

He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,
(Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?) 
But he caught the quaint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;
(What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry?) 

He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,
(I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears! )
And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;
(Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)

by Edna St Vincent Millay | |


 Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;
Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand
Tugged ever, and I passed.
All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.
Yet onward! Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural.
Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats.
Only my heart makes answer.
Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear.
Only my heart, only my heart responds.
Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.