Tom Cat Poem by Greg Like

This is Tom
Tom is a cat
It's hard being
Tom,

A bottle of Slivovitz
To grant his moronic expressions on the TV
It's not an extortionate pay for Toms soul,
Which has been rissoled with a doghouse
and the razzmatazz.

Tom has a brutally disfigured
Physiognomy of his face, broken whiskers,
Discharging eye, incapacitated hunters sense
And a will of being professionally annihilated.
For it is known, that since a hundred of episodes
Something is killing him, something that is not meant
For him. Something he's not designed for.
Tom has a degree of a bachelor
in music.

Tom Has low self-assessment
About himself and he drinks slivovitz.
In the distance, on the edge of the blockhouse
Hammered together from many little dollhouse flats,
Of such cats as Tom,
You can here lack of grit and bravery and a dose of narrow minding.
Tom spits on narrow minding.

Nobody remembers anymore that Tom and other cats
Had a crushing advantage in the time of Mesozoic
As tree-dwelling mammals.
Ruthless and clever, they had an ascendancy
Over cold blooded reptiles and vermin.
As an relict of those days of glory
Tom still wears his once-groovy boots
Made of crocodile scale.

He's got also a keepsake scar over his eyebrow,
From the times when everything he wanted was free
And he didn't need to do anything,
To be young and shrewd as a minion of the gods.
An example for those mindlessly shaping the rocks,
Egyptian yuppies he despised.

Toms feelings are illegible,
He don't understand them
cos he's drunk already.
This night is going to do whatever she'll wants with him.
He's got a sore throat and a drunk hearing, despite that
He still bangs the keyboard of an untuned piano
With his swelled fingers
With a maniacs obstinacy.

He howls a „song", which he ought to finish
A long time ago.
Now he thinks, he just might do it now.

Slivovitz.

This is Tom
Tom is a cat
It's hard being

Tom.