There is a village, tucked out of sight,
Where cool cats gather every Saturday night.
At dusk, they assemble with regal flair,
To gossip and plot with a judgmental stare.
Wise cats.
Fat cats.
Chatty cats.
Brat cats.
Purring cats.
Trilling cats.
Murmuring, mewing, and “Feed me!” cats.
Their fearless leader? Felis catus, of course—
Tiny in size yet commanding the force.
If one gives a slow blink, don’t panic or hiss;
Congratulations—you’ve received a cat kiss.
But don’t get too smug. Don’t get too bold.
Their trust has a warranty of twelve seconds, I’m told.
One mighty MEOW! and you’ll instantly see
They’ve promoted themselves to your royalty.
Descended from Felidae, Order Carnivora,
Masters of zoomies, chaos, and flora.
With night vision sharp and hearing supreme,
They detect snack wrappers for miles, it would seem.
Their noses are flawless, their instincts refined;
Your hidden tuna? Already they’ll find.
They speak in a language no human can crack—
Part Shakespeare, part opera, part demanding a snack.
Some scholars insist, with remarkable passion,
Their dialect comes from Old High Valyrian.
Sadly, the translators all disappeared…
Probably because they ignored a cat and got weird.
And if, late at night, in a shadowy alley,
A chorus of growls begins to rally—
With snarls and spits and chattering teeth…
Do not run,
or they’ll chase.
Walk backward slowly with dignity intact,
Then toss them a treat as a diplomatic act.
For every cat knows, beyond all debate,
The universe spins because they are great.
You’re not their owner—you never were that.
You were merely employed…by a high-born cat.
Corney Press 