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The Cats of Spring
(With apologies to Swinburne, not that he needs them.)
by Con Chapman

When the cats of spring are on winter’s traces,
   The sleep-addled chipmunks emerge from their cribs
To see hungry bewhiskered feline faces
   Licking their chops and tying on bibs.
While the brown-backed robin goes a-worm stalking
The cats creep up making less sound than walking;
He’s going to get it, in just a few paces,
   Believe me, I know them—I’m telling no fib.
Cats are hunters who need no spring training,
   They’re out there first thing, imprinting the snow,
getting paws muddy when it’s April raining.
   Then tracking it in, wherever they go.
If you’re a mouse who towards suicide is tending
   My cats can help you to meet your ending.
They've assisted lots of critters whose lives were waning
   Though I’m not sure that all were quite ready to go.