At night she sat in her laid-back chair,
And spun her marvelous yarns,
Which were sometimes so exciting,
She would wildly wave her arms.
If she got into the spirit,
She could lose her self-control,
Slap her knee, sit back, and laugh,
And be a silly soul.
But, were her tales of romance.
And of unrequited love,
She might moan or groan a little,
Then reach for her cat to hug.
And, sadly, if the truth be known,
Her only audience was the cat,
Who could tolerate most anything,
If held upon the lady's lap.
The tiny cat heard every word,
The lady had to say,
And at fitting times she aptly purred,
Or meowed to show dismay.
That cat went round the world with her,
To many places, many times,
And to strange lands of fantasy,
As conjured up in the lady's mind.
Sometimes her stories were of horror,
Gruesome tales of blood and war,
If the little cat cried or sighed,
The lady hugged and loved her more.
She loved to tell historical tales,
That might go back to ancient times,
Before 'Domesticus Felinicus,'
Had been discovered by mankind.
Then the cat would hide her eyes,
Afraid those tales were true,
Though safe from harm in the lady's arms,
Still snarling tusks came into view.
But, all in all, her stories,
And the tales she told were fun,
And the cat enjoyed her voice,
As it droned on and on and on.
So wise, the lady who told the tales,
So wise, the cat that listened, too,
But, in honest truth, between them both,
The cat was the wiser of the two.
"I don't play hard to get at all,"
Admitted the intelligent cat,
"The best place to snooze and muse,
Is on a storyteller's lap!"
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright June 2004