• Hugh Loxdale

Prisoner of her Genes

Updated: Feb 16

Today she was a grumpy cat,

More deadly than the male,

As I found out to my cost,

When I tweaked her swishing tail.

And saw that gleam in her savage eyes,

That look of cool delight,

The stare of the ruthless hunter;

The stare that she was right!

And licking my wounded finger,

A scratch both bloody and long,

I reflected if I had teased her,

And if indeed that I was wrong?

Perhaps I had and perhaps I was,

Though I assumed we were old friends,

Yet wary is he that gets too close,

To the heart that tears and rends.

Who kills for sport, as we so do,

And is like us in other ways,

Its instincts framed in ancient times,

Well before these balmy days.

When on velvet sheets our pet does sprawl,

Her body lithe and lazy,

Resting now, but forever tense,

And even slightly crazy...


....To wound the hand

That will feed her soon,

And that happily strokes and preens,

But she, like us, is not so free,

Being a prisoner.. of her genes.

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