Cat and Desdemona

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If the cat could speak
Will she say that
Othello’s war ship runs on wheels
And that it slouched up slowly
The uplandish hill?

That a willing daughter
Opened the door
And in her artlessness, this maid,
In the arms of the Moor,
In passionate exchanges made the beast?

That she knew it was strange
And as hitherto unknown,
So that she, in utter despair,
Kept marching up and down;
And she saw much more than she’d like to know
And that today you were not cast to play Brabantio?

The cat, eyes lit, ears pricked,
Like, stationed on fire, not knowing how to enact
The guardian duties, in faith, left her:
Your eyes close, seeking my warmth,
Or was it just that the cat was jealous?

She looks at you as you want to hold her,
Once the Moor is gone, departed.
Perhaps, all that was quite alright, she thinks,
Cos she knows that you’re quite often soft hearted.

Jealousy or fear for your fate:
She would probably have told that truth to
Her numerous kitten flock
Had you, for her own good, not decided to keep her
Out of stock.



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