The Poet To His Cat

Tuck in thy toes, prick up thina ean, Assirme a listening attitude, And I will teil thee, happy pat, The tale of thy beatitude, And when I've told thee all the troth Just rub mj hand in gratitud. ffhat hast thou to be thankful for Besides thy far famed fatitude? Thou roamust free, with ampie room, Not housed in cramping flatitude. And thou hiist beds luxurious On couoh and chair and matitude - Beda whioh but for thy hairs would be Adorned vrith neatest nattitude. Thy days are passed in quietness, ' Unteased by brawling bratitude. Nor even are thy nerves outworn By steady stream of chatitude. Simple thy clothiug, happy cat, Unvexed by styles in hatitude. Well mayst thou pity other cata, Harried and wbrn by scatitude, Por friendly hands are stroking thee With touch of gentle patitude, And novar once has cruelty Stirred thee to pitapatitude. Noble cat pleasures flll thy lifa And swell to high ecstatitude. Thou meetest oft thy cattish kind And jourat in feline spatitude, And when the felines go for thco Thou giv'st them titfortatitude, And in the house thou mak'st thy boost Of cellars cleared of ratitude. Let other cats their homes desert In folly blind as batitude. Thou'lt never seek divoroe from thice On groondij of iueoniputitudo. Now, cat, I've told thee all thy lot Of happy thiü and thatitude. And I expect to see in thee Appreciative catitude.