"Mistaslav "

by Wendy Nicholson.

When Mistaslav goes walking
The lady cats all stare,
For though he is a juvenile
He has a certain 'air'.

It's not the way he holds his tail,
Though that is long and fine,
Nor is it yet his golden eyes,
The ladies call 'divine'.

Its something inexpressible,
A 'je ne sais quois' I'd say.
No common Tom can match him
In his manners and display.

And if you think I misinform,
My purpose to invent,
Then book a room at Thornley House
Where he is resident.

Then you will find that Mistaslav
Lives better than us all
In comfortable surroundings
With a butler at his call.

And he is all I have described,
A king with mane of gold,
Full of grace and gentleness,
A glory to behold.