Читать книгу Hyam The Cat Who Talked Too Much - Pamela Douglas - Страница 8

In this little tale I'm about to unfold,

I was, let me see, about ten weeks old.

It happened one October night,

I woke to find the room alight,

But not a single soul in sight.

Odd…

I looked about and over there,

Her dressing gown flung on a chair,

Familiar perfume filled the air.

So…

I wondered, was it very late,

Ten – or nine – or only eight?

Should I go or should I wait?

Which…

I took a jump down to the floor,

And suddenly, oh joy, I saw

That someone had not closed the door.

Out…

Along the passage quiet and dim,

Obeying an impulsive whim,

I crept, restraining every limb.

Wait…

Around the corner soft crept I,

Beneath the lamps erected high,

To give illusion of the sky.

There…

Behind the scenery I could see,

Lots of faces who would be,

Surprised and pleased at seeing me.

Look…

My owner there with make-up bright,

That I had watched applied that night,

Was sitting there just to the right.

Oh…

I thought she had not noticed me,

Or she'd have pulled me on her knee,

So I put forth a plaintive plea.

No…

I scarcely could believe my eyes,

She never does ignore my cries,

She looked away, I saw her rise.

Horror…

Am I here or still asleep?

I took one final desperate leap,

I crumpled in a shattered heap.

Terror…

Disillusioned, off I went,

With head held low, tail sadly bent,

For what had such behaviour meant?

Misery…

I scarce recall the arms that bore

Me back along the corridor,

Then closed and firmly locked the door.

A lesson.