Location: marengo, il, United States

Thursday, December 02, 2004

My Wallet

I once had a cat I named Wallet.
I know that’s a strange thing to call it.
But helpless was I to forestall it.
My heart was just in it, somehow.

He’d curl on the side of my mattress.
Having his self a good cat rest.
And after he ridded his cat stress.
He’d look up at me and meow.

Some days my Wallet would wash up.
He'd lick from midnight to sunup.
Then hack for awhile till he’d throw up.
I guess he despised his fur.

Clean Wallet slept days, like nonstop.
Less I scared him; then he would flip-flop.
Puff up to resemble a rag mop.
Then shoot out the room in a blur.

But Wallet now lives in Fatcatland.
That’s what I’m led to understand.
Where he Heavenly naps on a Great Big Divan.
And how I miss his meow.


Blogger Gone Away said...

Hehehe Way. And I guess you'll SWEAR this wasn't written for a certain little Owl of our acquaintance...

8:25 PM  
Blogger Harry said...

Her wallet was just laying there, so I took it.

9:02 PM  
Blogger Hannah said...

I guess since I gave you permission, I'm not allowed to call the police?

9:11 PM  
Blogger Harry said...

Er, Mr. Gone...Can owls dial phones?

9:18 PM  
Blogger Gone Away said...

No, but elephants can make trunk calls

10:08 PM  
Blogger Gone Away said...

I should point out (so I'm going to) that we are using this comment system as a chat forum. The intention is rather that it be an opportunity for high level intellectual debate created in response to the deep philosophical ponderings in the original post..... I don't know why I said that. Please ignore me and get on with your conversation.

10:13 PM  
Blogger Harry said...

This author harbors deep-seated and misdirected hatred of cats. He also detests money, obviously. His hostile attack on the wholesome lifestyle within what he considers to be a average peace-loving American home, here gauged by his own delusional imaginings, which may or may not be brought on by an early onset of Mad Pig disease, is transparantly evident. Punctuating this so-called "poem" (a bastardized, sick and twisted semblance of limerick and haiku, along with a dangerously litigational purloining of the Nashistic style, belies his puerile hope in the childish existance of eternal bliss. However, the telling absence of oars has to be the most remarkable point of all. What a pity. What a damn pity.

8:09 AM  
Blogger Gone Away said...

Au contraire, I would argue that the poet has achieved a fine balance of the quasi-medieval style of so-called Hasidic verse and the neo-Georgian excesses of Northampton plainchant. When one considers that the alleged "cat" is clearly a metaphor for the poet's deep longings for spontaneous combustion, it becomes possible to see that here we have an excellent example of self analysis by rudimentary and perfunctory exhumation of internal truth. Let us not forget, too, that the title, "My Wallet", is an indirect reference to the Watutsi word "Umwalita", having a meaning that can best be rendered as "Good gracious, Jeffrey, your pants appear to have a hole in the seat".

11:12 AM  
Blogger Harry said...

(what is IN this coffee today?)

12:24 PM  
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