The Great Game

My tabbies duel throughout the crowded house,
Sabering hussars trapped within a cage,
Encircling lofty monuments that rouse
The feline spirit yet the war they wage
Makes awe another tactic to espouse,
To wield in the skirmishes they stage;
Chair and mantle become fort and tower,
Commanding heights of military power.

Thank God they have no gunpowder, no steel
To create machines of wanton action;
Massacres they inevitably deal
Yet made so easy by such contraptions
That the public shrug while their victims reel
Whose suffering is a brief distraction
As spiralling glories turn to rubble
And nature’s wonders made ash and stubble.

No my cats won’t commit atrocity
But charge and flee in mock raid and retreat
As waves chase each other across a sea.
If they snarl for possession of a seat
They know it is for sport; the stripped kitty
Is no tiger, to amuse they compete,
Yet we are not so wise, some are too blind
To laugh, to cry, or even to be kind.

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This entry was posted in Octaves.

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