Napoleon And His Cat Came Round Poem by jim hogg

"Oh, Mister Bonaparte old friend, a cup of coffee, black?
We wondered if you'd walk the dog or have a heart attack
We have a clutch of pigeons here, they're Polish I believe
Incipience has made them start, an ending to conceive
A flight should take them further though - you'll take another clump?
Or maybe something sharper, whittled from a stump?
Oh no, he never flies at all, a clatter made him lame
Irreverence, you know, Putt Putter snuffed his flame...

A clever sort, he cloned a cop, and poured him full of guilt
He set him up in luxury and boiled him in a quilt
A pot of rum lay by the bed, a rooster clawed the air
Alsatians queued up round the block, their hackles full of hair
A shot was heard by all the dogs, I saw it in their eyes
You've blabbed your coffee, Bonaparte, I hope you realise."