I’m a cat
\nand I live, in
\nthe Butchers shop
\nI stay out in the
\ncutting room, where I
\neat well, there is lots
\nof meat around the place
\nand at Christmas
\nI am lucky its my base<\/p>\n
I’m sort of semi wild I am
\nfor no one really loves me
\npicks me up, or strokes me
\nthey often throw meat at me
\nSheep, Cows Pigs are
\nalways on the menu
\nthey come in from
\nSmithfield every week
\nChickens too are commonplace
\nBut Turkeys just at Christmas
\nthats the time really thats the peak
\n300 birds come in, and are hung up
\nin the shed
\nits times like these when
\nI’m glad I’m not a Turkey
\nfor if I was I know I
\nwould be dead
\nthe smell of rotting innards
\nis extraordinary
\nI hate it really, its the smell
\nof death
\nthe bone bins often are crawling with
\nmaggots
\nand when this happens
\nit really takes my breath
\naway,but still I count my lucky stars
\nat least
\nthe rats and mice
\nare fair game still for me
\nthey come around at night
\nwhen the snow has made it white
\nthat’s when I chase them off
\nnow constantly
\nI curl up in the cutting room
\nand sleep beneath the block
\nand so its fine
\nbut living in a death house
\nwith all the cutting instruments
\ndoes unlock
\na fear along the line
\nfor humans are a funny bunch
\nthough cats are pretty safe
\nits most unlikely we would be lunch
\nbut some will take a waif
\nVietnamese and Chinese sometimes
\nstripped of all my precious fur
\nand they’d watch me just bleed out
\ntenderness or something
\nis what thats all about
\ntorture on a scale
\nof terrible I call it, I
\njust thinking of it turns me pale
\nI wouldn’t want to die
\nAll those handsome turkeys
\nhanging upside down
\ntheir necks and heads all droopy
\ntheir poor old feathered gown
\nis weeping, and is duller
\nthan it was when they came in
\nthis morning they will be prepared
\nOh God I’m in a spin<\/p>\n
all that life is wasted
\nthose spirits will they stay
\nin the shed or in the cutting room
\nwow such dismay
\nchickens, capons,geese and ducks
\ngammons, hams oh dear
\nChristmas is a time of death
\nand of torture, do you hear?
\nAnd I just sit here hopeful
\nthat I will get a treat
\na nice bit of cooked chicken
\nthat I do like to eat
\nsometimes the shop men
\ndo it, at least at Christmas Time
\nHow glad I am that I’m a cat
\nand able to write this rhyme<\/p>\n
and if more of you were veggies
\nthen the torture and the death
\nthe vileness and the sadness
\nand the sickness in my breath
\ncould be forestalled or even better
\nstopped for that would be
\na much happier Christmas
\nfor the farming crowd, and me <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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