How A Cat Was Annoyed And A Poet Was Booted

A poet had a cat.     There is nothing odd in that--     (I might make a little pun about the Mews!)     But what is really more     Remarkable, she wore     A pair of pointed patent-leather shoes.     And I doubt me greatly whether     E'er you heard the like of that:     Pointed shoes of patent-leather     On a cat!     His time he used to pass     Writing sonnets, on the grass--     (I might say something good on pen and sward!)     While the cat sat near at hand,     Trying hard to understand     The poems he occasionally roared.     (I myself possess a feline,     But when poetry I roar     He is sure to make a bee-line     For the door.)     The poet, cent by cent,     All his patrimony spent--     (I might tell how he went from werse to werse!)     Till the cat was sure she could,     By advising, do him good     So addressed him in a manner that was terse:     "We are bound toward the scuppers,     And the time has come to act,     Or we'll both be on our uppers     For a fact!"     On her boot she fixed her eye,     But the boot made no reply--     (I might say: "Couldn't speak to save its sole!")     And the foolish bard, instead     Of responding, only read     A verse that wasn't bad upon the whole:     And it pleased the cat so greatly,     Though she knew not what it meant,     That I'll quote approximately     How it went:--     "If I should live to be     The last leaf upon the tree"--     (I might put in: "I think I'd just as leaf!")     "Let them smile, as I do now,     At the old forsaken bough"--     Well, he'd plagiarized it bodily, in brief!     But that cat of simple breeding     Couldn't read the lines between,     So she took it to a leading     Magazine.     She was jarred and very sore     When they showed her to the door.     (I might hit off the door that was a jar!)     To the spot she swift returned     Where the poet sighed and yearned,     And she told him that he'd gone a little far.     "Your performance with this rhyme has     Made me absolutely sick,"     She remarked. "I think the time has     Come to kick!"     I could fill up half the page     With descriptions of her rage--     (I might say that she went a bit too fur!)     When he smiled and murmured: "Shoo!"     "There is one thing I can do!"     She answered with a wrathful kind of purr.     "You may shoo me, and it suit you,     But I feel my conscience bid     Me, as tit for tat, to boot you!"     (Which she did.)     The Moral of the plot     (Though I say it, as should not!)     Is: An editor is difficult to suit.     But again there're other times     When the man who fashions rhymes     Is a rascal, and a bully one to boot!