I think I wrote this poem nearly a year ago but for some reason never got round to publishing it.

The background of this is that I was sat drinking a bottle of wine one evening and my cat decided that whatever I was drinking she really wanted to try. As I wrote the poem it was apparent that “wine” didn’t really fit the context so I switched this to gin (a drink I truly despise).

I guess there is an underlying meaning to the poem in that nobody wants to be surrounded by alcoholics, especially when they are in feline form.

She sniffs at the bottle like it’s something for her
but the last time she had some, she fell down the stair
She’s whinged and she’s whined and she’s sulked like a brat
but this bottle’s mine and there’s none for the cat.

She purrs and meows like she thinks I’ll give in
and pour her a drop of the 5 year old gin;
but the last thing I need is a cat on the booze
for a half baked little mog is not something I’d choose.

With a shrug of disdain, she saunters off out.
Yowling that ‘next door will provide her with stout’
I’m sure that’s not true ’cause my neighbours quite cool
and one things for certain, she is nobodies fool.

I doubt it’ll be long before I hear her come in
and beg me once more for a tipple of gin.
But nothing she says will change what I think,
“There’s nowt worst than a cat that is pickled on drink!”

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