Cacciatore

by E. A. Kittenson

Whenever Cacciatore went down town,
We feral cats would turn to look at him:
He was an oven stuffer, claw to crown,
Plump-breasted, quite the opposite of slim.

And he was always pecking in the shade,
And he was always clucking when he talked;
His feathers fluttered when the tabby said,
"Good morning," and across the street he walked.

And he looked tender, even through the wing,
And we were hungry then, in dire straits;
In short we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that he were on our plates.

But on he walked, and waited for the light.
We went without white meat, ate mice instead;
And Cacciatore, one calm summer night,
Went home, and Farmer Jones cut off his head.