The gardener who owned him was called Percival Spew,
And a true tyrant was he.
He told young Rumple: “I will never set you free”,
As he chained him to the garden fence,
To lash him with a stick - the pain was immense.

The poor cat was always bleeding, every day a new wound,
And he knew in his heart that he had to escape,
But where to he no longer knew,
And how? He did not have a clue.

His head was a daze
And his life was a haze,
And when he dreamed at night
He was always trapped in a maze.

Sick and bored of his life of pain,
He one day decided: “I think I’ll go insane”,
And so, unlike a normal cat, he started to bark,
And like a bird he started to fly,
Growing wings that took him up to the sky.

He flew away as far as he could
From that garden he hated, “I’m leaving for good”,
Is what he did say,
“But now I’m confused, I have lost my way.”

I comforted him with words:
“Rumple, you may be truly lost,
But at least you have a way of your own,
Which is better at least than a terrible home.

“You are sad and confused, of that I am sure,
But it’s the gardeners fault, no less and no more,
And when you feel lost with dismay,
Comfort yourself with this little thought,
That as you fly away with your new found stealth,
With no one else there, the gardener will end up torturing himself.”


© 2000 Matt Everett