Our Cat
a poem by Myra Dryden
Contrary to convention
Our cat
Doesn't sit on a mat
Gazing at children
In alphabetical order,
He's too proud for that.
Rather, he prances about
And hates you to shout
When he won't go out;
Or while you say your prayers
He curls up in a chair,
And stares and stares.
I can tell you that
Coloured Pencil on Paper: 280 x 200mm © David Swift