The cat who crossed my path the other night
Was scraggy as a starving witch’s sprite
And cauldron black, except her ears (chalk white)
Which means my luck is almost but not quite
A perfect thing. The difference is slight
And yet, for one who belts his trousers tight
And sees in every harvest hints of blight
And looks for half a worm in every bite
It’s worrisome. A whisker short of right
Has sometimes been sufficient to indict
My efforts for inconstancy; delight
In doing well seems often to invite
A fall which hits the harder for the height
From which it starts. So fancy turns to fright:
My prospects, for the moment, should be bright
But acting on them’s certain to incite
The doom that’s always hovering near to smite
The smug, and turn triumphant to contrite.
Yet giving in without a bit of fight
Is craven, so I’ll fly this little kite
And give free rein to whimsy’s fluttery flight
In rhyming lamentation for my plight
And if my luck’s enough, its readers might
Enjoy the verse the cat inspired, despite
Its being just a shiny pile of shite.