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Once I went hunting for pleasure or meat
Now all I hunt is the comfiest seat
Soaking up sunshine and basking in heat
On my back
White are my whiskers and faded my fur
I ache in the places where I used to purr
While some cats go clubbing, me I prefer
I quiet chat
I used to spend nights on the tiles until dawn
Now in a bathroom, all fluffy and warm,
A night on the towels is the role I was born
To enact
Humans approach me and plaintively plead
To fondle my fur, but now it’s agreed
At my age, a stroke is the last thing I need
That’s a fact
Any day now, it’s a knock on the door
And death through the cat-flap, a scythe in its paw,
Will carry me off to some sorrowful shore
In a sack
And then it’s a grave and a carcass within.
A headstone with epitaph ghastly and grim:
“She wouldn’t go out. Now she’ll never come in.”
And that’s that.
I’m an old cat.