Ode on a Litter Box

Though oft used in silence, ’tis true
The scraping clay as sands of time.
With feline attachment, we must also accept
Odors much less sweet than our rhyme.
Thy rectangular shape doth haunt my days
Of either number; or of both.
The color of which I shall not mind.
‘Tis the stench I do so loath.
An insane chase?  A struggle takes shape?
Meows and whiskers?  A mouth agape?
Odiferous, not sweet, I dare say
Therefore, my dear, the cat must pay.
And earn her keep, endearingly so
A mouser she is, or she shall go.
Her beautiful kiss I have never seen
For I know where her tongue has been.
As long as the home is rodent free
She shall have a place to be.

*
So who shall tend and sacrifice
The clay is clumped and so unclean.
For this pet, a killer of mice
I send my wife, the fair Kathleen.
She doth adore this little cat
As do the kids, I must affix.
But we must all remember that
Daddy and cat litter do not mix.
For on the box, in golden leaf:
“Here squats Polly Jingles, Mouser in Chief”
And that is all we need to know.