Paw-Don Me, Mr. Gregory Poem by ed purchla

What wrong have I, a humble black cat wrought,
That hath earned the wrath of a fearful pope?
Clad in a daft jeweled hat the flock bought,
Grasping for holy straws, spinning false hope.

Hear me meow, O ye of faith so blind!
Your unfounded fears, borne of darkest lore.
In me, no devil's mark, nor evil signed,
But as nature's child, no less and no more.

Konrad von Marburg whispered in your ear,
And you ran with it hook, line and sinker.
Cathars, Waldensians, such sects now in fear,
Your next mark; the 'heretic' Stedinger.

Hark, the vile plague in dark shadows does thrive,
Not in feline form, but in rat and flea.
Your war on my kind, unjustly contrive,
Blinds your eyes to the disease you need see.

For though I am just a vatic tabby,
It might interest you to heed this cat.
Prior to returning to the abbey,
You might need us to get rid of the rats.