The Cat of St. Ives (Part II)
I never was a cat of home,
and born the streets I was to roam
from Tom unknown, and mother cold
I learned from young my course to hold.
It wasn't always pain and pine,
though verily in winter time,
and oft I would a sated sleep
take neath the night and dream to keep
of when my life would always be
of comfort, warmth and joyous glee.
But moon on moon the hardships came,
and when the rats from sunny Spain
the black death carried we became
the heroes of the town again.
Dark of coat and black of eye,
quick of mind a lythely by
the guard and dockhand they would slip
on into town to nibble, nip,
and chew through cast off food and grime;
the humans' waste their baleful crime,
attracting such a numerous crowd
who carried with them darkened clowd.
The simple flea, a stowaway
that lived among us every day,
hosted by the humble rat,
the loyal dog, and sovreign cat,
brought to the land a baleful gloom,
a loathsome curse, a ghastly doom.
And as the first afflicted foundered
blame was cast and fear resounded.
I myself to Truro bounded.
