Black cat, black cat,
what do you think?
You stare at my paper,
you stare at my ink.

Black cat, black cat,
what do you know?
You sit like a king
with nowhere to go.

Black cat, black cat,
why look at me?
I've written twelve poems
on feline mystery.

I need a new gig.
I need something big.
A whale! A giraffe!
A tap-dancing pig!

But cats are my curse.
They're filling my verse.
Each poem gets cattier,
each stanza gets worse.

Black cat, black cat,
get off of my page.

The cat did not move.

I trembled with rage.

“I'll write about mountains!
I'll write about ships!
I'll write of adventure
and perilous trips!”

The black cat just blinked
and gave a small yawn,
then sat on my keyboard
from midnight till dawn.

I need a new gig.
This cat thing's too big.
I'm drowning in whiskers
and rhyme schemes and—SIG—

No, wait. That's not right.
I meant to write fig.

Oh, wonderful. Great.

Now I'm rhyming with pig.

Black cat, black cat,
what do you think?

He knocked down my coffee.

It spilled on my ink.

I stared at the cat.

The cat stared at me.

And that is the end—

of Cat Poem One Thousand and Thirty-Three.