A Poem Written in Mock-Shelley
I weep for Pumpernickel—he is dead!
O, weep for Pumpernickel! Though our tears
Wash not the gore from his head,
Nor his paws, nor his fur, nor his tail, nor his ears.
Where wert thou mighty God, that morn' about
Ten, when he mewed and scratched at the closed kitty door
Until I finally relented and shoved his fuzzy ass out?
You must have known he's not been out much before—
He wanted to hump old lady Farley's cat no doubt,
Who'd been hanging around my trashcans—that calico whore.
O, I weep for you Pumpernickel—for you are dead!
And I'll never wonder why your paws are all wet,
Nor find you puking hairballs on my bedspread,
Nor discover the carcasses of birds whom you've met,
Nor mend my Ethan Allen ottoman you loved to shred—
Never again! Ah me! Such regret!
"Keep your fuckin' hair outta my Cheerios," I've said,
But I meant it not, my sweet, sweet pet.
I remember—fine feline—our very last day.
How cold that grim morning! How mortal we are!
I sat at the table, having Pop Tarts, OJ,
You exited via kitty door without au revoir.
I looked out the window—you went old Farley's way.
I mumbled to myself, "Watch out for a car."
Seconds later, pink nightmare! A Mary Kay Chevrolet
Going about eighty—it knocked you quite far.
I ran out of the house—she had stopped in the lane
To roll down her window and scream at me, "Jump
Back Jesus! Letting kitties out in this street is insane—
But don't worry dearie, he felt but a bump."
Then she tossed out rouge samples, saying, "Now don't complain.
The kitty's kitty spirit will transcend the kitty lump."
And if this is true, then this new star tonight
Familiarly flicks like tail triumphant out in space.
I'll name thee Pumpernickel. Shine! Flick your light!
Among the kitty-littered stars, you now hold your place.