Classic Poem

The least generous and most ungrateful
person I know is a cat
one foot long and six inches high,
clothed all the way from the tip
of his tail in maltese,
who irritates
the stuff I have to compose,
who comes, if you please,
right up on my desk,
noiseless and still, to be sure,
and not paying the slightest regard
to the treble importance of what I indite,
dread of composition,
dread of acceptance,
dread of payment,
spots me with two steady lights
from two steady lanterns,
the which there's no dodging:
so up I must get
(God help that shaky last line!)
and be jumped after, chased,
tripped, almost knocked down,
searching those fish in the cupboard,
ice-box, window-sill, fire-escape —
(God knows where I left them,
but luckily's found them again!)
But now, meanwhile, good Lord,
where's that last line off to? —
gone like a mouse?
And you, Cat,
how you'd like me
to do that to you? —
the next thing I'll lose is the sale of this poem
and it's condensed milk,
diluted in water,
henceforth ever after,
for you if I do!