Not So Familiar
The household pet, a sleek black cat,
Lies dreaming on the fireside mat,
No longer, in her dreams, well-fed,
Nor so comfortable in bed,
But, as her nose begins to twitch,
Once more familiar of a witch.
With the witch in a big black hat,
Upon a broomstick she once sat,
As on Halloween night they sped,
Embodying a mood of dread,
Uncaring as to poor or rich
While making their unholy pitch.
And she recalls each nasty brat,
Upon whose sulky face she spat,
Or clawed at some offending head,
With spiteful scratches till it bled -
In dreams she's still a feline b****,
But when she wakes, she'll make the switch.
C. A. Cooke
Copyright © Beth Evans | Year Posted 2020
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