What do I ask of mudcat, that I need fear
It would not send me cheer? I am a charmer
To think that dreams upset it: It is clear
The Cat is eternal, I am but a llama.
What do I want of threads, when verses share
such rhyming convolutions I have told?
Why do words in patterns so compare,
When ego seeks through verse to then unfold?
Why do I seek the cat, am I but scared
I may not find in Penguin or in print, and search
For publication in its threads? I've dared
Far less, for more: continuous rhymes I share with threads that lurch
Yet, I keep on, and still stick out my neck
That I might some day find a publisher with a cheque.