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.