To be read out loud; the voice of the Bull Rat something like Ray Winstone advertising online betting.
Tommy Cat is mooching homeward in the alley-
Finds his way is darkly barred by something fat.
With his extra special sense of smell
And super-fine night vision
He identifies a bloated old Bull Rat.
Says the rancid rodent, ‘Morning, Pussy Tommy.
You ain’t coming past through here, and that is flat.’
A scaly heap of menace
With a tail like a horse whip,
Big and ugly, old and crafty, strong and fat
‘You shall really have to fight me, skinny Pussy,
If you want to get back indoors to your dear mum,
And I do not rate your chances,
You are puny, something scrawny.
So what’s it going to be then my old son?’
So Tommy ups and dances on his tip-toes
Hackles up and tail like an old bog brush.
And he executes some steps
And throws some complicated poses,
Spits it this way, spits it that way, ‘Sheesh-shash-shush!’
‘You’re an ugly scaly monster, fat old Bull Rat.
A veritable lordling of the night.
But you don’t look all that healthy,
There’s a sickly putrid odour,
And I don’t anticipate a very lengthy fight.’
Tommy rose up on his toes some more and twinkled
In and out and up and back for fun of it.
Like a surgeon he deployed his shiny scalpels
And employed them,
And the Bull Rat bled from deep wounds, ‘Slit-slat-slit!’
‘You have cut me, Pussy Tommy!’ squole the Bull Rat,
‘And there ain’t too many can profess to that.
You have nurtured my full ire,
And my dudgeon rises higher,
You’re a dead ‘un, meet your Maker, Pussy Cat!’
‘Well, remember that you bear the Mark of Tommy –
Ear to ear and down the nose- remember that.
And should you ever just forget,
Be sure I haven’t finished yet…’
And he upped again and at him – ‘Slat-slit-slat!’
For a final show of artistry and ring-craft
Tommy flew so high above the old Bull Rat.
Seemed to very briefly hover
In this aerial manoeuvre,
Landing neatly, folding scalpels, just like that.
As he exited stage left straight through his cat-flap,
Flicked his tail twice and farted with a ‘fleep…’
Licked his shoulder, licked his plate,
Put his whiskers quickly straight,
Running upstairs at the double to his sleep.
His arrival on the duvet was acknowledged-
‘Morning Tommy, any news from out of doors?’
‘Nothing really,’ purrs old Tommy,
Washing extra special careful,
And removes the trace of blood from off his claws.
Dedicated to our old Smokey Joe, born May 1st 1998 and now sleeping out his end days peacefully at the age of eighteen; diabetic and troubled by his kidneys but still the best cat there ever was. (together with his sister Rumbelow.)