Marmalade cat across the street,

huge monument to too much love.
You lick your arse and then your feet.
I know the prone, dismembered dove
is down to you, fat feline fraud.
Our eyes engage, you look away.
You want to show me that you're bored,
your yawn, a needle-toothed display.
I know bad actors.  I read guilt
in every line and swollen curve.
The collared dove whose blood you spilt
was dealt the fate you more deserve.
Your golden eyes squint mystery.
Inscrutable to some but not
to me you thug, you effigy,
brown-nosing creep, vile sans- culotte.
Somewhere inside your pampered brain
the pards of old demand the price
of hunt and kill.  You still retain
their lust for living sacrifice.
Oh, bastard son of Bast, your line
is seeded with the skills to live
yet you submit to plates of Dine.
Shame on you, fatuous feline spiv.

Janet Kenny

If you have any comments on this poem, Janet Kenny would be pleased to hear them.