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Purret 29 [1]
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Date: 2023-03-12
Mm, yes, that's all very well, but how would you have redone Pangur Bán?
When, in disgrace with fortune and Mom's eyes
I lick my fur and scorn my “out, cat!” state,
I trouble not Heaven with my chirps and cries
Nor look upon myself and curse my fate.
I am a cat, thus always rich in hope,
Soft, sleek, and warm, of thrumming purr possessed;
Darling of poets and painters; Manet's scope
Barely encompassed my contented rest.
So in these thoughts I never am despairing;
Mom still loves me, I know, and thus my state
(Like to the lark I ate today, thus wearing
Mom's glare of shame) sings hymns at heaven's gate.
For Mom's sweet love forgives me catly things
And makes me feel superior to kings.
-- William SleeksPurr
This was a comment I posted here, somewhere, sometime. Someone IRL was unable to find it, and I am lazy. No other reason and certainly no excuse.
Hopefully it will amuse the cat lovers, and not greatly enrage the poetry lovers, and even more hopefully the Shakespeare lovers will never figure out where I live.
I won’t be tending this diary as much as I used to; too much to do today.
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