The Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

What does the internet need, more cat poems?
I'm glad to supply.


The Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

She had a blanket, old and worn,
From which a terror would be born.
It’s pile, delicately shorn,
Was colored in the stripes, and scorn,
Of the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

It had once hung upon the wall,
Eight foot by four did those claws sprawl,
She took it down late it the fall,
And laid it in a closet stall,
To hold the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

Our cat adopted liked to sleep,
Upon an armchair that we keep,
Where sheddings piled like kits asleep,
And far to deep for hand to sweep,
Need we the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan?

"I’ve got that blanket," she did say,
And so we pulled him out one day,
His face and claws foretold foul play,
More fearsome far, than I can say,
Was the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan 

We laid it over that armchair
At first our cat seemed not to care
Of why we might have put it there
But he liked it when he did repair
To the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

One night, while climbing onto there,
He pulled it straightly taut and square,
It formed a tent over the chair,
Which gave him space to climb in there,
The lair of Olde Shere Khan

As our cat slept, as all cats do,
He would somnambulently mew,
These fearsome feline rumblings grew,
And it appeared to breathe anew,
Resurrected, Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

Our kitty, in his awesome chest,
Did not just sleep but soul invest,
Now here is Shere Khan manifest
With growlings in his angry breast
That despot, Olde Shere Khan

Will he hunt me, like Mowgli,
So he may be a King, singly?
Those eyes have voice now, and I fear,
It’s best we move away from here
Far from here,
And the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan