Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones,
In fact he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs, he has eight or nine clubs,
For he's the St. James' Street cat.
He's the cat we all greet as he walks down the street,
In his coat of fastidious black.
No commonplace mousers have such well cut trousers,
Or such an impeccable back.
In the whole of St. James’ the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummel of cats.
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to by
Bustopher Jones in white spats.
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational,
And it is against the rules
For any one cat to belong both to that,
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimp’s
And he’s frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison, he gives his benison
to The Pothunter’s succulent bones
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at The Drones.
If he’s seen in a hurry, there’s probably curry
At The Siamese, or at The Glutton.
If he looks full of gloom, then he’s lunched at The Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding, and mutton.
So much in this way passes Bustopher’s day
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day.
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
And to put it in rhyme, “I shall last out my time.”
Is the word of this stoutest of cats.
It must and it shall be spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
PWBPeeps is a group that posts a daily diary and nightly open thread for animal lovers. We share photos, seek & give advice about pet health and behavior issues, support each other in times of sadness and stress, celebrate together when times are good, and on most days have an inordinate amount of fun.
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