Flossie Butterworth

Staff Writer

Flossie, as she was christened,
was nothing less than charming.
Always kind to strangers,
as composed as a symphony.

She lived in a home,
on a street, on an island.
Not excessively decorated,
but far from being plain.

When we had first met her,
she was out on her patio,
sitting at a spruce table,
enjoying the maritime air.

She wore a silver necklace that
hung loosely around her neck.
Engraved with her name,
“Flossie Butterworth”.

“Hello,” said we.
“We hate to bother you,
but we must. For we
think you’re twee.

Do you mind if we
share a seat with you
for a few minutes
or maybe a couple hours?”

She smiled at us silently,
and shut her eyes,
and went back to sleep.
We sat next to her.

We pet her head,
ran hands through her fur.
It’s not too often one finds
such a content cat.

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