Ah, my wicked pal
With your heavy meaty breath:
Again on your nightly ritual prowl
Upon our door you deliver us death

In the form of a pigeon heart
I see through your little “sacrifice”
In front of the missus, in front of the wife
I know the craft, I know the art
Of one who doesn’t play so very nice

Your feral feline challenge
To my supposed manliness
Does not go unrequited;
Reaching deep down inside
I find a virile and macho quest
Not unlike those who were once beknighted;

Without your jaundiced yellow eyes
And without your matted, coarse hair:
Naked in the night,
Unaided by whiskers blowing in the evening air;
I rush into the dark and blindly up to the front
Off on to my brave and noble manly hunt;

My predator skills were lacking
And many hours were lost
To my old habit of empty and idle slacking;
I was not sly and I was not swift
But I knew in those wee hours
I had to bring home the mighty prize,
A desperately needed winning gift

Dawn shown on the front porch
And again lay a mess feathers and a pigeon heart
Lain down for the wife, for the missus;
Another tiresome show of hunting craft
And prowling art from that nomadic Ziggy cat;
But if one’s eyes moved just a smidgen
You could see I had one better than that
Something I was sure impress, something I was sure
Would thrill;
To my love, my sweet and to my one and only girl
I simply and sincerely wrote:
Please try my chilli bowl of kickin’ red hot varmint and squirrel.

She could not resist the spice,
She could not resist the sauce;
I had won
And the cat had loss;
But before he retreated
from the heat of the late morning sun,
He graciously came over, unchagrined
And gave my cheek a loving, tender whisker lickin’