• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 08


Four portraits, each with nine lives bred,
unless the shade is in its tenth,
so black for wight, familiar?
The current steward, titled line,
Praetorian, guarding this past
display of noble ancestry,
though many more must wait their turn
for hanging, order of their age.
Hear cat o’ nine tales, doubtless more,
all stories whipped from four-told lore,
this no Macavity before.

Dogs left to gamble, table cards,
without the master’s voice through horn -
head-tilted Nipper on the phone -
superior - they serene breed,
as self-sufficient gods would be,
and caterwauling not their style.

It’s only dress tells history,
unless we’re victims fakery,
and this the record, annual ball,
when fancy dress was de rigueur,
so party was transmoggyfied?
I have the feeling, feline field,
it’s not too bothered what I think,
for mice and men of no regard -
too busy counting nine to ten.