Tim’s Cat

I once knew a locksmith called Timothy
whose cat was a lardy behemoth, he
scoffed rats till he threw up.
I forget where Tim grew up,
his accent was Cornish or Plymouthy.

Tim fed his cat minced beef and onion
pasties and cider for luncheon.
He lapped up that scrumpy
then, like Humpty Dumpty,
went “wallop!” in drunken malfunction,

so the table and chairs would all rock a lot
like the house had been seized in a Hottentot
or Zulu uprising,
which isn’t surprising,
that brute was the size of an ocelot.