by Nick Gisburne
McCat delivers more than slaughtered birds,
Although her spite, at night, excels at that.
She brings the things I wish she wouldn’t: words,
Regurgitated whispers, fresh and fat.
I take the best, because I fear the worst
Will drag me to a terrifying place,
But every wicked syllable is cursed,
Insanities I cannot fight, or face.
McCat cavorts with criminals and creeps.
From these diseased despicables she steals.
Sadistic, never satisfied, she sleeps,
But wakes to trade her trickery for meals.
She speaks of mice, of murder, as we chat.
Small wonder I’m suspicious of McCat.
