Hear the words wherein I sharply rate, and execrate this babel
“Ye are they who are disturbers of my peace.
Till I bring forth my revolver, what is slumber but a fable?
When I use it—then shall hope of sleep increase!”
Who would fear to shoot a double-faced, unmusical old tabby,
Harsh of language, lank of limb, and sharp of claw?
“Night is well-nigh spent,” I cry; “you vote me cruel, tricksy, shabby?
I am riled and will not give you any law!”
Many a night that caterwauling has continued, I remember,
On my housetops and my neighbour’s in the town;