The Cats At midnight when spirits sprout their wings, in the city's alleys and all over the streets, the cats come to wail. To chant the hate of a million years as they crouch and swing their snaky tails. They flaunt their prowess to the night, malevolent, bony and brindled they are, their eyes are smouldering coals from the middle of Hell, and their hearts are black, and hard. They twist and crouch and caper and bare their curved, sharp claws, as they sing to the stars of jungle nights 'ere cities were, and laws. Beasts from the primeval they are and their wailing, leaping clan. When the red sun leers over rooftops it signals for them to give voice to their Scorn of Adam, spitting, screeching, howling, hissing, they proclaim the plague of man. They remember the plight of Faust, gleefully, as through the night they scout looking for lost souls to prey upon, creatures, minature devils incarnate. Yet they will lay on a rug tomorrow and lick their silky fur and veil the bruteness in their yellow eyes, and play the tame and purr. But at midnight again, in the alley, They will crouch again and wail, And beat the time for their demon song With the swing of a snaky tail. ©1998 Sally