This poem is based on the real life antics of a cat called Moony who lives in the Highlands. It’s not for the squeamish, fans of small rodents or children of a nervous disposition. However fearless children and cat lovers seem to enjoy it.
“The Moony's out, the Moony's out,
Run for your lives 'cos the Moony's out!”
That's what all the mices shout,
Every night when the Moony's out.
~~~
Moony is the softest cat,
His fur is smooth and white and black,
And he lives with Mrs Linda Platt,
Who also keeps a yak called Jack.
In fact her house is like a zoo,
She has a baby kangaroo,
A parrot that is green and blue,
A lizard and a python too.
But Moony is her favourite pet,
He almost never needs the vet,
Because he has a special diet,
(Other cats would love to try it).
He has a solid silver dish,
From which he eats the finest fish,
A nice selection of cold meats,
And little crunchy, catty treats,
And something that might make you shiver,
A paté made of goose's liver.
And if he's peckish after tea,
The slightly bonkers Mrs P,
Sings the Moony's favourite tune,
And feeds him yoghurt from a spoon.
The Moony's quite a feline dude,
And even after all this food,
He can't resist his secret vice,
A liking for the woodland mice.
So once he's had his evening snooze,
He wakes and stretches, purrs and mews,
Sits and cleans his furry paws,
And sharpens up his kitty claws.
Then Mrs Platt turns off the telly,
Picks him up and tigs his belly,
Says “Whose 'oos Mummy's wittle puss?”
(It sounds a bit ridiculous),
But she loves Moony very much,
And he cannot escape her clutch,
Till she turns on the outside light,
And Moony goes out for the night.
~~~
“The Moony's out!” the mice all cry,
“Run for your lives, the end is nigh.”
But when the Moony first comes out,
He takes his time and strolls about.
~~~
Just nearby in a hollow tree,
Lives Arthur Mouse and his wife Marie.
Their children know to all run home,
Whenever Moony starts to roam.
Moony has nocturnal eyes,
His pupils are a 'normous size,
So in the dark he can surprise,
Those mice who aren't so worldly wise.
He loves devouring furry critters,
To him they're nothing more than fritters,
He snacks on field mice, rats and voles,
And robins, rabbits, wrens and moles.
He likes to crunch their little heads,
Which makes them most completely dead,
And other critters live in dread,
Especially those who knew poor Fred.
~~~
Fred was Arthur's oldest friend,
Who met a very horrid end,
Even worse than death by stoat,
He saw inside the Moony's throat.
And Arthur saw the whole attack,
As Moony pounced on poor Fred's back,
His old friend had no time to quibble,
He just became a mousy nibble,
From head to tail Fred was consumed,
And Arthur, terrified, assumed
That he'd be next, so off he ran,
And at that stage he had no plan,
But safe at home he told his wife,
How poor Fred had lost his life.
He vowed he'd always start to shout,
To warn the world when the Moony's out!
~~~
So Arthur keeps his family safe,
But Moony's caught some other waif,
And as the sun begins to rise,
Somewhat to even his surprise,
Moony walks towards his house,
His belly warm and full of mouse,
And wonders whether Mrs Platt,
Has left his breakfast on the mat.
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