A Poem: “Machiavelli and Pangur-Ban”

Machiavelli and Pangur-Ban

By Luke Phillips


Jingle-Cat and I sit fast,

Through the hours, first to last,

Practicing our chosen trades

For which we were aptly made.


At my desk, stacked high with books;

In her cozy, comfy nooks;

I investigate the world;

Jingles dozes, roundly-curled.


My mind swarms with songs of men,

Living hist’ry o’er again;

Her mind darts to squirrels and birds,

Whose shrill voices once she heard.


Intrigues draw my face-lines tight—

Human nature lacks respite;

Jingles leaps from slumb’ring pose,

Begs my gaze with nuzzling nose.


“Meow,” says she, requesting treats,

I dispense them; these she eats

And disrupts my sullen mood;

As she’s found hers, I’ve found my food,


For which I have lived my life—

To know the Ways of Man- Love, Strife,

But Jingles knows our ways as well—

To get fed, just meow like hell!


I survey the art of pow’r;

Jingles wields it hour-by-hour,

Dominating whole my will,

Halts my labor, eats her fill.


How it’s fitting, every night,

As I ponder Mankind’s plight,

In this quiet habitat,

I’m ruled by Jingles, Best of Cats.

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