Seven days since my last taste of poultry.

Seven days since my last taste of poultry. Haven't had as much as a bean in three. And the last of the water... I look down at my cat, she's as thin as a paperclip. Why, why did

n't I go to the store yesterday? I quickly jot down a list and check it twice, before heading out on my errand. My hungry kitty watches me wistfully, hoping I don't forget tuna.

I got back home and unloaded my groceries into the cupboards. When no tuna cans issued forth (whoops!), my cat looked me right in the eye and locked himself in my bedroom. I heard

him taping away at my cell phone. I banged on the bathroom door. "I'm sorry I forgot the tuna can you ever forgive me?" I heard a small purr. He was texting lies about

me as usual. Being a cat owner is so bad for my self-esteem. I think I'm doing a good job, opening a can twice a day. But I get treated with total contempt & the neighbourhood cats

keep disappearing. There is a neighborhood cat serial killer out there. Suspects, there was Spam Baby he wanted the cats dead because they gnawed his shoulders, and there was

Crouton Mandibles who killed the neighbors who were not oniony enough. There's a killer on the road, a killer in the pond, a killer in your mind, despite our lovely bond. "Enough!"

Although the poet was witty, he was not that smart. The crocodile-man tore the poor poet apart. The following scene was surely not for the feint of heart.

A poets life is rarely this gorey. In truth its rather quite borey. Terrible rhymes, are the least of his crimes. But it makes for a half decent story.