Cat Poems by Rhys Hughes


Rimsky was a business cat
but he had no suit
and had no hat. Nonetheless
he knew what he was about
when he told his bold
colleagues how to act
without fear in the
big wide commercial sphere.

They ran a factory
those industrial felines
and dominance was their motivation.
No other kitties throughout the nation
were quite as ruthless
or half as lethal
despite their purrs
as Rimsky’s gang of profiteers.

Hostile takeovers and mergers
increased their assets yearly
and Rimsky grew less surly
and licked his fangs in sheer delight
as every deal he struck went right
for his furry people
all of whom were other cats
who loved to win.

By charging less than his rivals
he undercut them drastically
and forced them into bankruptcy
until his firm was the only one
among the few left in credit.
“Rimsky is a bandit. To rack and ruin
he has driven us!” they all said it
and it was perfectly true.

Dog biscuits was the product
that Rimsky’s empire was based on
and when he had a monopoly
he changed the ingredients
to summarise his power.
A few drops of poison in the flour
and the greatest dream
of every feline was realised.

The dogs they died one by one
across the land. Such fun for Rimsky
and his friends, that merry band,
to witness the harrowing ends
of mongrels and pedigrees alike.
A joyous and uplifting sight
to crown their delight as they
walked around the dogless towns.

Dog and bird who hear these words
take care to guard your skin.
Beware of fat sinful cats
devoted to the profit margin!
The Cat that Got the Cream

Tufty was the cat

that got the cream but he went

very far to get it.

Out the door and down the street

on his little furry feet

following the North Star

in a sort of waking dream.


Who had sent this gentle puss

on such an arduous errand?

Naught other than

his own desire to see the world

before he expired

compelled him through the night.

For sure he must get

the cream before it curdled.


He made no fuss

but simply leapt every hurdle

on his lonesome path.

Over walls and hedges he did go

until he reached his

destination, which was the local

train station, and there

he waited for the milk train

to arrive at long last.


Shaken and churned

by the motion of the locomotive

the milk should be

the finest cream he might hope to see

or sniff and taste

in summer, winter or any season.

This at least was Tufty’s

reasoning… He wasn’t wrong.


I wear a poem as a hat
one of yours in fact.
I stole it from a chest of drawers
while you were distracted
by the claws on the shadow of
the paws of a cat.

That cat was me and still
I am but now I have a
sonnet with a brim. It was
written with a quill and homemade
ink. You are an old fashioned
damsel, I think.

If you were a kitten and fast asleep
upon my lap, I doubt I
would mind your blatant theft
of all my hats and maps.

Even the plundering of my
bulging purse would be
forgiven, let alone the snatching
of such a minor verse.
But you are not.

My, it is hot under this hat!

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.



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