Somewhere along the Old Kent Road
lives the man who stole my cat.
He didn’t mean to do it, he says.
But what does it matter
if that’s a fact?

I picked up a shovel and dug a grave,
put the litter tray inside, cursin’
the big bag of dried food remainin’.
Remember purring was the perk,
waking at five o’clock: scratchin’
to be let out.

The neighbour saw me diggin’,
called the RSPCA; in stormin’
like coppers with a zealot’s streak.
Six months probation for shovelin’
in a threatening manner, yer Honour please,
it was the fleas!