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It was drizzly December when
the cat first appeared
and took the French teacher's chair
for his bed.
Now his scimitar claws in the
staffroom are feared,
oh yes, and the street-fighter's
teeth in his head.
Once a day he is seen doing arches
and stretches
then four hours like a furry coiled
fossil will lie.
It's true that he's made all the
staff nervous wretches.
They approach...... and he opens one
basilisk eye.
For the teachers
know very well not to stroke him.
They know that he won't play the
game.
He's a wild cat,
a not-to-be-riled cat.
He's a tortoiseshell cat with no
name.
I once worked in that school and
observed the huge creature's
habits as I sipped my cracked cup of
weak tea.
I saw how he frightened and flummoxed
the teacher,
and how-----every Friday he'd
one-green-eye me.
To appease him each day we laid out a
fish dinner
which the beast snaffled-up in just
one minute flat
then returned to his chair with a
smirk-the bad sinner!
It seems there's no way to be rid of
that cat.
For the teachers
know very well not to cross him.
They know that he's three parts not
tame.
He's a wild cat,
a wild cat,
a not-to-be-riled cat.
(He can't bear to be smiled at).
He's the tortoiseshell cat with no
name,
with no name.
He's the tortoiseshell cat with no
name.
By: Wes Magee
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