All Hallows' Eve is approaching,
I've heard stories about what happens to Black Kittens...
So you were taken from your mother too soon.
You are scared of shadows,
but are an expert mouser.
Some days you stretch languidly in my lap,
while others are spent under the porch.
I try to coax you out with cream and a nip,
to little avail.
Your favorite evening perch is just under the porch-gable,
where you wait for that fuzzy bat to flit within your grasp.
Will you murder it in a fit of violence,
or will you hold it tight, whispering in it's ear,
"We who own the night will always be lovers."
Your box and saucer are here always,
waiting.
But you rarely visit,
My fierce kitten.
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