I’ve studied hard in yellowed Latin books

despite her contemptuous catty looks

I memorized and performed each Shakespeare play

and waxed philosophical about old Dorian Gray

I swore she snubbed her nose at Milton

and acted like some feline Paris Hilton

so I decided on Miss Rossetti’s beauty

but to this fine poet she was just as snooty

Ahh! Maybe it’s love that my cat requires

then it’s all the Du Maurier that she desires

and throw some Jane Austen into the mix

to which her tail replied– three flicks!

I suggest a Wilkie Collins mystery then

or maybe something from Christie’s pen

and dark gothic dreams from Mr. Poe

but of them she did not wish to know

well-exhausted by her finicky taste

I searched out Thomas Hardy in a haste

then piled Dostoevsky up on top

and for good measure "Hop On Pop"

"That’s it," I said, throwing up my hands

exasperated with my cat’s literary demands

I said "It seems I will never find a book,

that you will give a second look."

"Yes, you want to read as I’ve noticed now,

since you seem to find a way somehow,

to lie upon each and every open page,

from "The Well-Beloved" to "Emperor Mage"

"Alas," I sighed, "I give up, dear cat."

She arose, at last, when I said that

and walked off of my stories and rhymes

to shred apart the discarded NY Times