Behind a tile hid it as his property.
When she’d finished her washing, and wetting her paws,
Had drawn two long stripes down her sides with her claws,
She sang a sweet sonnet with such style and grace,
It reminded one of the musician of Thrace,
And made all the hearts of her list’ners rejoice
And say, “I am sure that’s a pussy cat’s voice,”
While some feline solfas and harmonious chromatics
Laid a whole nest of rats low with nervous rheumatics.
’Twas late spring and fair Flora with buskins of gold