C A T P O E M T I M E
Bill the Cat
Spffft. It's Cat-Poem Time!!!
Bill the Cat's uncertain as ta why he'd always tired; his eyes've drawn
their curtains an their cords have been retired. His mind's a cellar fulla
rats: dark, polluted, cold; his mine is now a home for bats, divested of its
gold. Daylight never flicks at him, each day's an endless nap; psychic leeches
stick ta him until his soul is sapped.
Bill's brain's an empty urn, his life is incomplete; his world, it seems,
won't turn, his sun exudes no heat. The forces that compelled him have
relinquished their command; the hopes that once upheld him now lie buried in
the sand. Lost among the roaches, his eyes see only mist; the Age of Ice
approaches, no way can he persist.
Bill's been ta every Vons and a dozen Alpha-Betas; he's witnessed glowing
dawns an the taste of dried cicadas. He's known some saintly folks, an been
burned by balls o' sleaze; every time he tokes, he knows somewhere God is
pleased. He's given in ta pain, just ta tumble in a pile; the bugs inside his
brain made their exit single-file.
Bill was so elated as he grabbed his ringin' phone; these sentiments abated
when she said, "You're on your own." She left the Cat in anguish an she left
him stupefied; she left the Cat ta languish, he felt taken for a ride.
Inflicted with wounds mortal, things will never be resolved; lookin' for a
portal, he just wants ta be dissolved. Ack.
It seems that this poor Cat is doomed ta never face the day; languishin
inside his tomb, he feels himself decay. He yearns an expedition, but his
movement's just a slog; his eyeballs say "Gone Fishin," but his craft is
waterlogged. Once he went out bikin, but he ended in a wreck; his limbs abound
with lichen, and his hands are pigeon-pecked.
Bill's bitter tongue is swollen, his mouth's a wretched bed; his eyes are
bACKwards-rollin, prepared ta leave his head. He's pricked by endless needles,
his heart's a bouncin ball; his head is fulla beetles engaged in little
brawls. Like a fearsome witness who emerged from his own mind, Bill's
pervasive sickness leaves him to the bed confined.
Bill's got a cold again, his bACK is feelin achey; his head is clogged with
phlegm, his limbs are ACKtin shakey. The germs are all rejoicin, the Cat's in
their control; his body's cold an moistened from his derma to his soul. He
shivers in his tattered clothes an moans away in pain; on an on he blows his
nose an hopes it's not his brain.
Bill's feelin pretty shoddy as he lays away in waste; he yearns ta leave
his body cause it's not a pleasant place. Germs are racin through his veins
like traffic on a street; pathogens invade his brain like flies on rancid
meat. He's ever more diminished, soon there won't be nothin left; this Cat is
almost finished, he awaits his final breath.
Bill's family's dispensed him, they've joined the government; his friends
have turned against him, this Cat can take a hint. They never buy him drinks,
they must want him ta die; counselers an shrinks? Bill knows they're FBI.
Bill's phone-calls go unheeded; he collects his mail at night; this Cat won't
be defeated -- not, at least, without a fight.
Spft, an Bill's in the mood for a fight.
Maybe he's a cynic who's afflicted by a curse, but Bill avoids the clinics
cause he knows they'd make him worse. Hospitals he's never liked, an nurses
give him fright; shots are bad unless they're spiked with lots o China White.
Doctors make him sicker, most prescriptions have no point; Bill's medicine is
liquor, his thermometer's a joint.
Bill's shapes are always shiftin, his form has got no mold; his mind is
always driftin, it doesn't have a hold. Reality is tenuous an often outta
reach; concentration's strenuous for brains o dried up peach. His clarity is
equal to a feeble AM station; his life's a dismal sequel to a bad
Lookin pretty somber for a Cat who's flyin free, Bill rides a rusted bomber
just above a turbid sea. Every coupla days he gets caught up in a gale; he
can't discern which way, an he gets the urge ta bail. The need ta vomit grips
him like a virulent disease; shots of cold air whip him as he feels his
Mental hail attACKs him an transforms his mind to mince; hunger surges rACK
him and induce a frightful wince. Quivering, he haggles for a musty loaf of
wheat; his thoughts begin ta straggle as he ambles down the street. Mangled,
stooped, and weathered from a life that's been unkind, the Cat is wrapped and
tethered by the chains of his own mind.
The Cat's in need o plumbing 'cause his body's toxin-addled; his ears are
fulla humming like a siren who's embattled. Feverish, he takes a walk but
finds his limbs unsteady; as he nears the second block the sunlight gets too
heady. Bill concludes his walking, now he sits encased in rock; everybody's
gawking, cause his pallor's just like chalk.
Ack, now Bill knows what it means ta have a "white" Christmas. Tfpt.
Bill's coughin an he's sneezin, an his heart-beat's off the graph; don't
ask him for the reason but he's got the urge ta laugh. He stopped his moan an
groanin an he wants ta get ta work; he even plugged his phone in, now he feels
like Captain Kirk. He smoked a couple bong-hits an he can't suppress a smile;
maybe he has lost his wits but life don't seem that vile.
If you saw Bill's residence, you'd prob'ly find it odd; a dwelling made for
pestilence, a structure termite-gnawed. The plaster that makes up the walls is
given to decay; when the rain decides to fall, the liquid has its way. The
carpet crawls with fungi and the windows are opaque; the squalor and the
grunge could turn a Cat into a snake.
The flames the Cat is stoking have consumed his favorite trees; only when
he's smoking can he put his mind at ease. His raft is ever-sinking, an his
life vest's fulla lead; only when he's drinking can he keep at-bay his dread.
His brain is never working an his reason tends ta slip; his fears are always
lurking, this Cat's sure ta lose his grip.
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