Clancy, the Tom
For want of better knowledge I sprayed Mortein on a fly,
Next day I was debating with a passer-by
If my action was a slaughter akin to keeping cats as pets
And we found ourselves in corners hurling threats.
Her defence was unexpected, loudly slating my remark
That her nightly pussy’s wander is always stark
I countered with some data that showed actions oh so foul
Of the antics of bush pussies on the prowl.
I quoted three hundred and ninety million lives lost every year
And that was just from pussies not considered dear
One hundred and eighty animals, or half a life each day
Went to fuckers who were now just seen as stray.
Sleeping in our laundry eating Felix wet cat food
And his toileting in litter quickly pooed
Oh that is so unfair to brand him, his bell makes such a din
That unwary fauna are always ahead of him.
Clancy did go out late one recent rainy night
With the lady cat next door, yes, twas possibly a fight
Eight weeks on and seven kitties are alive
No spaying on the table, just cuties left to thrive.
In quiet reflective moments, I have pondered Clancy’s antics
With his gonads floating proudly just below his hips
Of those seven off-spring restless, I bet they were mostly feckless
Free to roam to where the townsfolk rarely go.
From Flannery’s researched data I now must sadly quote it
And I’ve assumed the seven matured and were fit
Seven mouths, seven years, and half a life each day
From Clancy’s just one outing, eight thousand animals must now pay!