Epitaph To Chloë

We wish it well once more to see,
Climb upon some pointed tree,
Our dearest cat ‘the black Chloë’,
Friend to all both you and me.

She pukèd once she pukèd twice,
In younger days she’d chase the mice,
In the garden eat the grass,
And that’s not all, no not the last.

In the morning wake you up,
In the evening break a cup,
She would comfort she would squeak,
And paw around before a leap.

In the end she’s like us all,
Liked to think she’s six feet tall,
When in fact it’s there she lies,
Beneath the shells as Justine cries.

So spare a thought for our Chloë,
As the garden dug must be,
For ‘neath these shells lies not some tree,
Please let her rest, please let her be!