Classic Poem

One day a statistician great
Computed that the pussies ate
Six million, thirteen birds a year,
And called upon the clubs to hear
His figures that were truly strange,
And showed a quite stupendous range
Of most laborious observation,
Coupled with fine imagination.

He told how pussies in the spring
Made mince meat of the birds that sing.
Descanted on this shame of shames,
While many gatherings of dames
With aviaries on their hats
Wept at the perfidy of cats,
And cried, “Our birds destroyed? No, no,
The cat is doomed and he must go.”