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Oh Kitty Kitty
Oh Kitty Kitty
Oh kitty kitty, where couldst thou be?
I seek and I seek, but I haven’t found thee.
I looked up on the rooftop, I looked in a tree
I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me.
I know I don’t often change your cat box
And I’m sorry about stuffing your head in my socks
But it was awfully funny when you ran backwards like that
I laughed as you stumbled, you hissed and you spat
I know it was wrong, so now where did you go?
I promise no more of that cat hammer throw.
Though your tail is so tempting, resisting is hard
And you did actually clear the neighbor’s back yard
Over the fence you hissed through the air
Clearing his chimney with inches to spare
And how great was the clamor when you struck that Pit Bull
Wow did that fight have your little paws full!
But then you came home, only missing one ear
And now I can’t find you, oh kitty my dear.
So where did you go? I miss my sweet cat
There’s only your fur on the couch where you sat—
Well, the couch and the carpet and on most of my clothes
And our guest is allergic and sits scratching her nose
But seeing the empty place where you usually are
Makes me wonder if maybe you were struck by a car.
And I don’t say it flippantly or trying to be mean,
I just don’t want to think that you've ruptured your spleen.
Vet bills these days are obscenely too high
Just like those stitches I got in my thigh
I don’t blame you for clawing me, I was playing too rough
But drying a cat is hilarious stuff
I always laugh when you’re spinning in there
Even on “Delicate” it poofs up your hair.
So yes, I don’t blame you for scratching me so
But I wasn’t expecting that you would go
So where are you, dear kitty, where can you be
Why don’t you come out and play with me?
I haven’t been drinking, not since two nights ago
And I seem to recall we played rodeo
You were the steer and I roped you all night
And then we played Tarzan till morning light
From there it gets fuzzy, we were out in the garage
My poor sodden memory just needs a massage.
I guess I’ll go look, see if you’re under my truck
I will find you, dear kitty, with any luck
And while I’m out there perhaps I can tell
From whence comes that terrible rotting smell.
Blame this poem on Stan Fletcher
As you can see, I am not a poet. This poem is entirely the fault of Stan Fletcher and his hub "Killer Ideas for Your Next Hub." Normally I don't allow myself to be baited into such things, contests that pit writer against writer, a furious and debauched perversion of the art to be sure, but, well, when the prize is as stupefyingly large as Stan is coughing up ($3.00 cold hard cash), even those with high moral, uh, highness will stoop to beggaring our craft. And so I have. I apologize and assure you no cats were injured in the making of this horrendous trainwreck of verse.