Tufts of fur have flown along with my own frazzled nerves and now the ultimate threat has been leveled: there'll be no more Buttery Biscuits with Pearl Gravy or other delightful fish stews or baked filets for me until I type a new groanworthy rhyme sent from Lim's pal, Mr. A. Cat (an agent formerly in service to our nation.)
From his spy's lair underneath an undisclosed patio in a distant land, Mr. A. thinks well enough of the following verse to send it along, and perhaps his viewpoint does have merit. For after all, taking a lower p.o.v. of Politics and political thespians is often a wise course, even without rhymeries being involved in the mire and slush.
Therefore, I have now realized that the stand-off between Lim and myself must end for din din isn't the same without his considerable cheffery skills (he was trained in Paris, you know.)
So I only hope you, lone reader, may pardon me for being such a putz. Yet there are few human beings living with a feline companion or two who have not been subject at some point to blackmails and briberies as perpetrated by their Leonine masters...am I right?
There once was a kitten named President
who lived in a White House as resident
he took on the wars
to settle some scores
toward eastern religion his fez is bent.
Mr. A. Cat, Esq.
as typed by Jude Cowell
Oh dear...well, at least the savory fragrance of Baked Foxfish already wafts its way from kitchen to keyboard! ;p jc
Now here's Zasha the Russian Blue cleaning up after one of Lim's delicious repasts...