And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls
To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell,
All scratched on nose and wounded side,
Her youthful freshness faded years too soon,
And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice,
With hideous likeness to infantile howls,
Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all
That ends this awful, maddening night,
Is one last howl—then day breaks in upon us,
Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast.