Such a terrible flu it is

Such a terrible flu it is, she said,

the cat lay on the floor outstretched,

paw, jaw and tambourine entwined,

as the foggy morning crept up behind.

Feline had snarled at the gray,

alas seeing as it was, much of what he did,

had not struck her as odd, until she felt a sudden itch,

and with hand on neck, and his claws in check ,

felt a lump as thick as a parakeet's head.

Mr. Parrot sat meanwhile, observing the goings on,

chiming in with cliches and generally,

conforming to type the world had set him up for.

And he lay inebriated, in a dizzy fueled,

by candle snuff, for she loved Yoga and Tantric sex,

all of which required the aromatic stuff.

And Mr. Parrot, in the haze he viewed

what he reckoned a mate,

sat atop Lily's grotesquely rotund nape.

A flaming red she was,

he thought that is what I like about her!

as he occupied himself merrily

with thoughts of making love,

until a few parroty clicks, and none a lended ear;

he nestled back to type, begrudgingly clear.

The contagion meanwhile had done Lily in,
the morning breeze was left
somewhere over the bend.
The fog had engulfed, but only her place,
as it sat atop garden greens grown brown in waste.
And the fog had since brought with it night,
without a glimpse of hue,
letting only the faint shimmer,
of moonlight through.

So as time flowed, it hurt more and more.
She let cry in choppy screech,
and tears flowed, sullying her tweed.
And when fever bit
it hurt her in her bones so deep,
like a memory who's warm breath hath crawled,
up your sleeve,
and on your lips, and worn you sore. 

Cackle-meow-click, the animal cabaret

kept approaching alarmingly,
marching on towards Lily's bulbous base.

And the numbing inanity of all of this,

drove the room into an incontrovertible third place,
away from ho-hum of life on earth,
and any place among stars,
no, it was a drunken multiverse it had to be,
Piqued with somber notes,
where juxtapositions of cacophony and cries
made time tick and muffled your sighs. 

But the fever had to end, of course it did,
The fog that had shrouded them, the next morning it slid,
into the abyss, or whence it bred.
leaving behind a Lily, blathered in sweat.
Mr. Parrot meanwhile, noting the neck mate's demise,
had had another wank,
on a carpet stain he was particularly fond,
after which he went for a stroll, as he usually did
and thinking Lily dead, and being what he was,
Mr. Feline had had, Mr. Parrot's throat slit.

But with no one else around,
Mr. Feline conveniently pled the fifth.
And per judicial norm,
Lily put the purrer away,
with milk, no less.