Two months have passed, nay not two, since this bed Which ere was warm, hath cooled - matted with hair; Where once were murmurs, now nothing is said:
O! Sing in me Muse, (off-key or plain dead) More feline, feral, fey, than feminist
Who cackles when I moan, "Hiss, hiss, purrrr," You recalcitrant orientalist -
Who sheaths your katana within my fur, All the while praying, Domini Dom- Hypocritical Don Juan, and damn proud: I shan't play Jerry to your peeping Tom,
Nor veil my heart beneath your Turin shroud. You got these twelve lines, now here’s one more; I'll be your soneteer, but never your whore.