Cats Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I do not like them, not at all.
Their feline nature drives me mad,
in Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall
our cat, named Lucy made me sad.
She had the personality
of an anointed queen,
but every day reality
showed that she was quite keen
to mingle with the common folk
and rabblerouse all night,
dead mice and birds, oh what a joke,
were waiting in daylight
on our breakfast table often
half-chewed and bloody skins to boot,
she'd munched on them to slightly soften
the insides of this yummy food.
She scratched all items in the house
and poked her claw in Rover's eye,
she would have left had not the spouse
decreed to have another try.
A training program was begun,
the two spent hours learning rules
and I came home to utter fun
of cat behaviour, we were fools.
And then one day the vet said 'sorry',
at twenty she was very old,
'I'd say this is her final story',
it left the family dead cold.

And then she died on Sunday night,
was buried near our Bunya Pine.
For weeks I didn't feel quite right,
and there she sleeps, that cat of mine.