are we having fun yet?

Conforming to probable and wholly understandable sterotypes, I (or rather my poetry) could be described as being a bit dark and depressing. I can understand that, but - as I have previously stated - it's easier to write when you're pissed off with life and all that's being thrown at you. Even when the obstacles to living a life of sunshine and bliss are wholly imagined and purely a figment of your own warped and paranoid imagination, it still feels good to mope about it and scribble black thoughts on a secret notepad. I reckon all poets are a bit miserable, even the happy ones.

So when asked by a colleague to write a nice ditty about her cat (and no Mrs Slocum jokes please) I thought it a good opportunity to try something new and see where verse light and frothy would take me. I'll spoil the ending by saying that I haven't written anything of this ilk since, which was 13 years ago and counting...)

Molly's A Cat

Molly's a cat,
I've no doubt about that.
A friendly old furry fat cat.

In front of the fire
She'll cosily retire.
I've got no problem with that.

Eat food all day,
And a ten minute play,
This is the life we all seek.

And every half hour
A sleep she'll devour,
As if she's not slept for a week.

What can I say now,
That'll make sense somehow
Of the lazy old life of a cat?

Molly's a cat,
I've no doubt about that.
A friendly old furry fat cat.

April 1996

molly the cat
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