The King of the garden is dead

And now the vultures come

For once before they would fear to tread

But not now, now the King is dead.

 

The King was a battered mongrel dog

Who kept his enemies at bay

And no cat would dare to enter his domain

Whatever the time of day

 

The cats roam fearless now

And in the midday sun can quietly lie

Or dance and play upon the ground

Under which the King’s bones do lie.

 

His memory seems to linger though for when I spied a feline gang

And called out ‘CATS’ as in days gone by

Tomcat, tortoiseshell and tabby too

Pelted hell for leather and rushed away

 

Now once again they fear to tread

This garden, this hallowed ground

And that mongrel dog, that former King

Who kept this land free from cats -His memory lives on still