That Cat Poem by Owain Glyn

I saw that Cat the other day,
Where he was going who could say?
He strode along his head held high, his tail erect to brush the sky.

He gazed at me with pure disdain,
As if to say 'not you again! '
His promenading, full of grace, would indicate he owns the place.

What does he really think he's at?
Can he not see he's just a Cat?
And be satisfied with that?

Oh no, this feline bon-viveur,
Of Royal bloodline he is sure.
How can he be the stuff of Kings, while eating Rats and things with wings?

His gait screams immortality,
Nine lives he has, supposedly,
But that old tale is just a myth, not something that I'm bothered with.

His haughty ways do not fool me,
I see through him with clarity,
He's just another quadruped, with dreams of glory in his head.

He pads along with studied poise,
His ears pricked for any noise,
That might just help him demonstrate, those hunting skills he thinks innate.

He's self-deluded,
Self-possessed,
But all the same, a Cat, at best.

He turned the corner of my street,
The tour of his domain complete,
Adventures over for a while, he headed for his domicile.

I sauntered home with confidence,
To find him perched upon my fence.
I picked him up and tickled him, he purred at me and we went in.
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