God Is Feline

So, fastidious stranger, you relax Your sleek black back the lure Of all true slaves to touch And supposed cure of all who crouch Beside you and with meek hands, Submissive voice, reach out in self-deceptive choice Towards the Icon of their Faith. It's with such languid grace that you stretch out And so permit these long, slow strokes, Which we, as worshippers, provide as prayers. Your grace adapts us to your natural pace And you allow a brief address, In a low, respectful voice. We imitate your mantra That those in true control Need few sounds to rule. Or indeed to close a tedious interview. With opal, agate or whatever gems Your bold eyes fire and your broad tail Dusts the chair anew with threatening Behaviour. Fastidious stranger, How royal your quick dismissal! You prefer to be alone, recumbent sphinx, Whilst we can only dream to be as you, And share your God-like luxuries.