God Help Us All.

Iambs.

For C.apeshit (and her new BF)




The management of hairball and of weight is crucial; more than fruit and meat and veg. And so much more than pleasing human hearts, or masking my red rage to be polite. For I, a cat, once mangled by a fence, and left one limb short of a quadruped, must keep my cat pipes clear of fibrous fur, and keep my cat butt less than thirteen pounds. I’ve tasted it from day-to-day and, yes, they say the "switch-up" is the spice of life, but knowing what’s in store for you each hour; knowing the scoops that, yes, you can control-- the in-and-out of dish and litter box, the window-nap and black pen top to chase—it’s all a prize; a gift for living through eight lives of choices failed and options felled. I’ve made it to life nine, hooray for me! Albeit not exactly in one piece, but if I take a pellet o’er a thrill; a lazy life of comfort o’er ill-health, then so be it, and who be you to judge? Give me my bland food, then go f**ck yourself.

If I Was Male, British, Human, and a Popstar: