A Cat who writes rhymes has some terrible times
Bowing three times ev’ry time the clock chimes
It’s a dreadful affliction – and this is no fiction
(Cat uses a mirror to practise his diction)
But who can speak clearly when facing the floor –
You’re bowing so low you can’t see the door!
People can enter and give you a fright
Closing the door and dowsing the light
Now a Cat like me who’s brimful of glee
Who knows his numbers and his ABC.
Is understood often by only a few
Like Snakes and Reindeer and Penguins called Hugh.
May we speak of the Penguin in suit so formal?
Worn nine to five? now that’s not normal!
The Penguin I speak of had moved from the Zoo
Reinvented himself and now is called Hugh
His beak is real shiny, his feathers so neat
His suit’s always pressed – right down to his feet.
It started to rain – Hugh needed a brolly
You’d think that a Penguin would find that a folly!
But Hugh likes to be dry, as well as unique
So I found him a brolly to hold by the beak.
(My friend the Eagle, inventor of things,
Gave Hugh his beak and spread his wings.)
Hugh was delighted and thrilled with the choice
Only one problem – he had no voice.
He flapped his wings and created a breeze
Hugh answered this by tight’ning his squeeze
‘You’re strangling me, Hugh, please loosen your grip
Or when I am free I’ll nip on your lip.’
Out came the Sun, just in time for that bird
Who now to anger had felt himself stirred
He pecked at poor Hugh with fearsome pleasure
And ruffled his feathers for really good measure.
‘Do that once more and I’ll call the Cat
And he will transform you into a bat!’
Phantasmagora, the rhyming Cat’s name,
(For that silly label his aunt got the blame)
Had silenced the clocks all over the house,
So instead of bowing, he listened to Strauss.
From bowing so often he had a sore back
The ducktor did nothing – he was only a quack.
But Phantasmagora had magical powers
Like changing the weather and bringing on showers.
It was he who’d helped Hugh to escape from the Zoo,
He’d looked for a Penguin, a shrew or gnu,
Someone useful to him who’d keep the place nice
Free of termites and fleas and camels and mice.
His choice of Hugh had turned out quite well
The house was clean, with a pleasant smell
And Hugh lived on a diet of laughter and fishes
Which perfectly matched his employer’s wishes
He liked to be flattered, that Phantasmagora
So Hugh had to say ev’ry day ‘I adore ya’ .
The moral of this, it must be said
Is never eat rice or porridge in bed
Rice has hard grains
That just give you pains
And porridge is horrid
When it lands on your head.