Can You Be Discreet?
They think I whisper secrets to my cat.
Another drooling booby on the dole.
Another dirty, crazy, lonely soul.
I am content to let them think like that.
This disguise is wise. So says my cat.
For he’s the one who does the whispering.
He’s the one with secrets. I have learned
Almost all my magick by his side.
One day I heard a tiny whistling
From a sack in the river. Poor sweet spurned
Friend had been under til he died.
But then his watery eyes had opened wide.
And now he tells me all that I should know
And promises some day I shall know all.
We follow chubby children to the mall.
They shouldn’t laugh at this agile old crow.
I take them home and do not let them go.
I watch my cat’s shape changing as he eats
Until with a smooth and princely hand he
Beckons me beside him on the sheets.
Sometimes he whispers that the feast’s for me.
I sup, and leap to meet him on four feet.
Perhaps you’ve heard us howling in the street.
Perhaps you’ll feed us. Can you be discreet?
As I recall there was much talk in 1985 about children who hurt animals growing into violent adults (unless of course something happens to them); this was published in Grue Magazine
