Sonnet.

No cats care their kin reigned, gods of Egypt,

Or in baskets burned at the witches' trials;

No cats quote from Jellicle Eliot,

Or bellow back Andrew Lloyd-Webber's bile.

Cats seem contented with sunbeams and mice

And nibbles, and knocking things off high shelves,

And had I a century, I confess

I doubt I'd find presence to live so well.

Yet a cat pays a price to lack cogness,

And I pay, as well, by knowing this fine

Little kitten, purring now by my breast

Shall lay in my arms limp, in its good time.

Whatever you're born, in this you must trust,

All are made equal, returning to dust.