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This is the work of Gerard Quain, if you have questions or comments email quaingerard@rocketmail.com
If your a publisher, or a commissioning editor email quaingerard@rocketmail.com
Cats
by
Gerard Quain
She looks out the window of her bedsit
Her vista from the second floor
Is a secret garden where she goes no more
Once upon time, when she was more mobile
And there she would watch the ferrel cats at play
Those wild things she would say, when I sat beside her on the bench
That wooden bench our haven, from those things at play
We are so much better than that, we never get dirty, or wet our paws
Just slumming it for an hour or so
So lucky our masters could not see, we would have been so ashamed
And as for tracking mud across the sheep skin carpet, we would be surely blamed
Oh such monsters she would say, they have no class
And I would agree for peace, but I was envious all the same
I wished for freedom from my routine
But they be careful what you wish for
For now I sit upon this bench alone
With no place to call home
She sits in her bedsit, and from the bedsit window peers
She is not as mobile as she once was
But it would make no difference
As she is an awful snob
And as a homeless cat
In her world I would not fit in
After all she likes her food from a tin