Mike the Cat

This is a poem about a cat named “Mike,”
a name for a cat that I rather like.
Not Mitzy, or Kitzi, or Bitsy, or Ditsy,
  Mike’s a guy, and his name quite fitzies.
He doesn’t go for the cutesy-wootsy,
  Although his feet look like little bootsies.

He wears a tuxedo, as he roams around,
  his aging belly slung low to the ground.
His eyesight is fading, far as I can tell,
  so the birds don’t worry that he wears no bell.
He makes his rounds like a cop on his beat,
  moving silently, slowly, on little cat feet.

We try to persuade him to join us for lunch,
  he demurs and moves on, but thanks us a bunch.
He’s got things to do, places to go,
  he’s a busy feline, surely that you must know!
He’s the cock of the walk in our condo complex,
  he monitors every construction project.

He’s up quite early, and stays out late,
  I don’t know that there’s any gal that he dates.
He plays the fields, by which we’re surrounded,
  he gets quite jumpy when by dogs he is hounded.
If he were a human he’d be way down south,
  instead he walks round, with mice in his mouth.

He’s quite self-sufficient, which can be a vice,
  he rejects entreaties if you try to be nice.
He doesn’t need charity, thinks you’re a dunce,
  for trying to get him to sit with you once.
No, Mike is quite the independent guy,
  I know ‘cause I failed the time that I tried.

One thought on “Mike the Cat

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