Queenie Is Dead
We are in a mournful mood this morn,
Queenie my friends cat is dead.
Overfed its fatty heart gave up.
For days it had been hiding in a box
dreaming of chasing mice
but now only dream-mice remain
to sing of her passing.
We are all distraught, some plainly overwrought;
for in cat and doggy years she was only 96.
The pageantry of her feline majesty
has us all held in obsequious awe.
If only I had been more kind,
more aware of her royal soul,
instead I flung a slipper at her
as she catcalled for a secret lover,
a noble cat who reigned not far
from here.
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