The Treachery of Jack Grey

Sleek, grey Jack;

two lifetimes away

from reigning supreme-

a weaseling dream,

lathered between the preening

licks of a posing sphinx,

who thinks Old King Cat's

time is up.

He slithers,

Cocky as a pup

When the King seems absent

to twirl his monkey tail

around my lazy legs,

always asking,

"Am I not the finest you

Have ever seen?"

Shadowing the lion

every day,  peacocked paws

past his nose,

as if to say, I wasn't,

you were in MY way,

creeping from under

the Gooseberry Bush,

lurking coolly past King's sunning,

slouchy cunning,

buzzing like a bumblebee

King's one eye spies as he goes

to carve the odour of his name,

claws scratching in the Dogwood tree.

Sage Tabby King of ten years

and twenty pounds sees all.

An elder's wisdom entertaining

foolish youth's brash antics-

until they go too far.

Audacious Jack laughs like a hyena,

Confusing tolerance with triumph,

He whoops and chews the nibbled wits

He thinks King's lost his whiskered bits- at last.

Fat old cat.

Every hair on Jack's skinny seven pound body

quivers, coveting the crown's symbol

of claw bound blood, worm-filled birds

and mole bones piled in sacrifice,

to honour ancient godly cats,

the world's first meow,

the cat's first life.

Divine the pile, proof piling high,

of hunter's prowess, catching night,

devouring darkness, fire in eyes.

Jack rolls and bats a passing fly.

The next day,

Jackal Jack, emboldened,

trots near, tongue tasting

King's eyes curled tight.

Leaves of Catmint and Fennel

grow wild beside the concrete throne.

Giddy as a mockingbird,

Jack lands in the garden,

bathing in scent, eating

tender greens and swooning,

he soon slinks and sits

where he does not belong.

Licking a toe,

He thinks, the fit is fine,

and then he thinks,

this should all be mine...

Then something hits him from behind.

A pouncing squish pins him

squealing like a piglet, "Please!!!"

The King says, "Run! And take your fleas!"

Sprinting blue scissor legs across the lawn-

sudden stop at curb's boundary, calm.

Polishing his mussed up pride,

ego's scruff won't hurt for long,

within hours he's returned to spy,

King yawns, a gnat is in his eye,

they have no memory, that's the crime,

he turns from Jack and goes inside.

Poor Jack must now chase Butterflies.