“Behold my great treasures,” said Nevel the Cat
and proudly displayed his honed artifacts;
blades with jeweled hilts and paw-sized knives
crowded the tavern wall on Hill Road Drive.
“This was from my mother, god rest her soul,
a Norman sword, a thousand years old.
And here a pocket knife from a former Cub scout,
long as a rat’s tail and thick as good stout.”
His companions laughed and gave him a cheer,
clinking three glasses of wine and some of beer.
“What a wonderful collection you are to bequeath.
Now tell us, who is the lucky honoree?”
He pointed to a young Tabby with a blue felt hat.
“Why Maisey, who’s succeeding my flat.
When I retire, she’ll have this whole store.
And cleaning rags and polish galore.”
Now, Cecil the Ape, was quite sad
for he’d wanted a blade for so long, and bad.
“But why not give at least one to me?
I’ve shone and re-gilt even the filigree!”
“I’m a responsible owner,” said Cecil the Cat,
You’ve got the passion and care, I’ll give you that.
But also the thumbs to commit a faux pas.
And I’d rather avoid all the deadly hoo-ha!”
And so it was, Maisey took over the cache
and finely wrought steel never, ever did slash!
(This was written after I had gotten into a debate with someone who collected knives and wanted to bring one of them into his school for “useful” purposes. Please keep schools a safe learning place.)