Whoever said felines can’t be poets? Here’s the best feline poetry ever.
Cats in heat serenade their sweethearts from their respective position above garbage cans. The moon stirs them, and their longing surges out with the ferociousness of water breaking a dam. They howl at the roundness of the moon, soft and yielding like a catnip-full toy, right outside the humans’ window at the tender hours between midnight and dawn.
Her orange whiskers was ablaze in the golden sunshine, and her bushy tail swept the floor like a lover’s caress as she stood gracefully at the stove, installing the nostalgic feeling of content and home while frying a mouse for breakfast.
The swarm of fleas glide gently over your velvety fur, clinging to your ears like an army protecting its queen.
The full moon watches above with the innocent of a newborn kitten, and the silvery stars hold their frozen breath at the all-consuming beauty of Hunter. Her grace is so vast, so wholesome, that it’ll take all the planets in the universe to house. She moves in a soothing motion as she lands her padded paw on a rat that had just climbed out of the sewer, its mouthwatering aroma painting the air a solid and nourishing color.
My heart is a can of tune, and you’re the can opener. You’re my soul sardine. I’ll wait for you till the end of mew, till this world runs out of mice.
Feline poets who sing their hearts out at three o’clock at night near your window have the right to express themselves under constitutional law. Chasing those feline poets away by throwing a slipper at them is a violation of their civil rights.
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