Like the streaks of the sunlight so daintily thrown,
The whiskers of Pussy a demon had drawn.
This image of death spread its wings o’er the cat,
And rising on tip-toe he lifted his hat;
But the eyes of Miss Pussy grew deadly and chill,
For something had told her—and told her still—
That she had ta’en poison, there could be no doubt,
For there she lay gasping and rolling about,
And as she lay sprawling and thumping the floor,
The demon arose and went out at the door.