You might have noted now, alas,
How many souls have come to pass;
There is but one that I hold dear:
Her name was darling Guinevere.
Her golden hair, and then her eyes,
T'imagine with me I'd advise:
Her gilded hair, as bright as day,
Would sparkle lordly in her sway.
Her bright-white gloves, adorned with mare,
Were made up of the finest hair.
Her eyes the deepest Em'rald bore;
What fool would ever ask for more?
I do forgive my Guinevere
For all the vases I did hear,
But, startled by their angry noise,
Was forthwith quelled quite by Her poise.
(Oh, china here, Euphron'us there;
You couldn't ask me now to care!)
Yes, she got older, like you lot --
But quite like you? No, she did not.
Her whiskers, still, were black as jet
And her fine hair required no net.
And, I recall, her eyes, like pearl
Her image from the dark would hurl.
Her final years were filled with joy,
Which fate would try, but fain destroy.
Ignorant of the status quo,
Is, I daresay, the way to go.
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At once, she was my goddess dear,
Her wishes' fruits were always near,
Which I was always there to hear.
Now statues occupy the mat
Where at one time She, pensive, sat:
My dearest Guinevere, the Cat.
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Submission Name: Guinevere
