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The Poetry of Bernard Shaw...
ALLEY CAT
In our back alley there prowls an old cat,
With its ears all ragged and torn.
For him, no place on a fire-side mat,
No love to keep him warm.
On moonlit nights you hear him call,
No melodious tones of delight.
He's probably mixed in some kind of brawl,
For this cat it loves to fight.
As I lay awake in my bed at night,
When sleep comes not to my eyes.
Do I have pity for its plight,
As I listen to its nocturnal cries.
Once it was loved by human kind,
A fluffy little bundle of joy.
But alas it grew, independent of mind,
And was not deceived by man's ploy.
I saw him last with feline mate,
His eyes looked proudly into mine.
He dared me somehow to share his fate,
Inferring that a cats life, it is fine.
But I am soft, I like my ease,
Independence is hard to achieve.
A book by the fire, I'm easy to please,
At least that's what I believe.
So if you see him prowling by night,
Remember it was his own choice.
Try not to disturb his cat-like delight,
With your loud human voice.
Bernard Shaw
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