Tfffft. Cat Poem Time!
Bill was walkin' sideways from the liquor he'd consumed; the beach he deemed his hideaway, where he could be subsumed. Seagulls look like vultures if you've had enough ta drink; sand makes short-lived sculptures like the lies you tell your shrink. A blotch of redness caught his eyes - an ambling crustacean; in the crab he recognized his brother and his twin.
If Bill were another Earth, it's one without a star; the deity who gave it birth's a demon in a bar. His atmosphere is toxic, it's a problem he can't solve - something always blocks it, so his creatures can't evolve. His magma's not uplifting and his mountains have eroded; his continents are drifting and his inner core's imploded.
Bill is not too good with words, he tends ta not be focused; his thoughts resemble grazing herds, or better, swarms of locusts. Each sentence is disjointed so he tends ta not be verbal; his mind is best anointed with a remedy that's herbal. When the cat is sputtering, it's of something profane; his mind is in the gutter, and his gutter's down the drain.
Each door-bell makes him pasty, and each phone-call leaves him white; he's like a toxic waste-heap, and it's not a pretty sight. Drugs of all varieties he constantly ingests, ta stifle the anxiety that's writhing in his chest. He slurs his speech while praying and he lights a cigarette; his friends are often saying that it's time to see his vet.
Girls with eyes like those of cats are said to be seductive; when you rub their welcome mats, the answer is eruptive. He met her at an ethnic dance and took her to the Med; her green eyes never looked askance, they grinned at him instead. Fate, it seemed, had paired us off - it's what the gods had willed; somehow, young Miss Tarasoff within a month was killed.
Better start to sing your hymns, this cat's in need of saving; snails are crawling up his limbs, their oily tendrils waving. Pray to all your deities, appease them through your toil; Bill's headed for the Pleiades, or maybe just the soil. Channel spirits' voices, whose presence makes you quake; Bill the Cat's made choices that a wise cat would not make.
Bill's oozed through hairy nostrils and the throbbing valves of hearts; a refugee of hostels, he's a patron of the arts. Like a beverage from the Rhine he claims to have matured; like the fish on which you dine he thinks that he was lured. Now he's got a painful ache from shoulder to his shin; like a spider or a snake he yearns ta shed his skin.
He's picked through bales of cotton, and he's heard Achilles' lyre; been smiled upon by Aten, and he's walked through beds of fire. He's slept in Clytaemnestra's bed and Polyphemus' cave; he's watched Jesus raise the dead and once or twice been saved. He's been made a saint and he's been used as a spitoon; now he exists faintly in a crusty brown cocoon.
Certain types of incidents are certain to occur; Bill will pay for insolence, and pay with more than fur. Glee won't be Bill's greeting to the things the future holds; all these years of cheating fate are bound ta take their toll. Bill the Cat will not observe his fate with some elation; certain things, he don't deserve - and these include salvation.
Some seek explanations for what drove this cat insane; Bill explains with patience, it's an implant in his brain. Alien abduction he endured when he was two, led to Bill's corruption and he wishes he could sue. Creatures sampled of his seed, their painful tests were sundry; did the beings wish ta breed, or were they merely hungry? No, Bill wasn't dreamin' as one day you all shall learn; better save your semen for the time when they return.
Bill don't like the ocean, 'cause he knows what it conceals; waves mix fetid potions, to the wretched sounds of seals. Though we all have tasted of these waters cold and coarse, mountains will be wasted by the waves' pernicious force. At the beach you find delight, for look what God's bequeathed: empty shells and parasites, and mounds of rotting weeds.
Pungent smoke pervades Bill's room, and make the cat feel placid; Bill's no longer feelin' glum, his nerves are rendered flaccid. Carpet greets gray ashes like a desert welcomes rain; the past returns in flashes to Bill's dry and lifeless brain. Sometimes yellow, sometimes red, the Catnip ember burns; entities Bill left for dead emerge from rusted urns.
For everyone you wound, for every time you lie; know that you are doomed, consider suicide. Make a tombstone in your wrist, slice it to the bone; marble, phyllite, slate, and schist: carve away the stone. Make yourself a monument impervious ta rain; sample the emolliement that works on every pain.
Spiders make their webs, and insidious trapdoors; tides may rise or ebb, eating slowly at the moors. Pitcher plants get sticky, to entrap the winged fly; have youself a quickie, and increase your chance ta die. Find a thing that gives you mirth and you will soon be cut; the goddess who bestowed your birth is really just a slut.
When he's in Emergency, he dresses up in white; he knows that every surgery is just another bite. His brain, so lush and ample has the ore they want ta mine; each doctor wants a sample of a product so sublime. If you have been wonderin' why you've not heard an "ack," specialists are plunderin' a cat that's on his back.
Bill's a lazy acre, there's a blight upon his field; he's gonna meet his maker and he knows his fate is sealed. He's used up all his rations, and he's due for quite a fast; he's made a few oblations but these efforts were half-assed. Bill has lost the need ta spawn, he has no urge ta grow; he's like a weed in someone's lawn - a lawn due for a mow.
Often Bill hears thunder and he's always feelin cold; his mind is getting younger while his body's getting old. No one hears his speeches, and his deeds remain unseen; waves erode Bill's beaches and his winds are cold and mean. He's got no concentration and his mind is strewn with muck; since the operation he's not had the best of luck.
Bill the Cat's got talents that he has not seen elsewhere; his chemicals aren't balanced but few things in life are fair. His DNA unravel to begin a brand-new dance; his chromosomes are baffled but perhaps they have a chance. His feelings, always bottled, mingle with formaldehyde; his skin is red and mottled, cause he swallows so much pride.
Bill's inclined ta travel just ta find some decent rates; he fears a pounding gavel and the sound does not elate. His manner's often surly as he packs away his things; his gates are never pearly and his hosts are never kings. He offers up a final "ack" and waves his magic wand; his girlfriend once had hair of black, but - Presto! - now she's blonde.
Bill's sometimes prone ta avarice, beneath his friendly guise; why does he look cadaverous? his blood's all in his eyes. His lids are always wilted like those damn venetian blinds; his speech is often stilted like a product of no mind. He knows that satan's seed has spawned, and fatal seeds are strewn; when you ask him what he's on, he wonders how you knew.
Bill may be erratic, every mood deserves its turn; his signal's mostly static and his speech is undiscerned; his nature is ta nurture an he hates the sight o' pain; unporoveked, he'll torture you, then dine upon your brain. He knows no hint of solar rays, through catnip-fog he peers; he offers tender words of praise like natives throw their spears.
Bill's dropped a lot of classes and he's gained a lot of weight; he's full of cold molasses, so forgive him when he's late. Frequently he falls asleep, with spasms he'll awake; certain things are hard ta keep, but not so hard ta take. Something's happened to Bill's health, each move he makes his strained; keep your questions to yourself, some things can't be explained.
Smooth as a shadow|
Nothing to be|
White Walled Cell
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