It’s a sign of the times
When the crickets all sing
Of the merriest crimes
In the land of the king
Of the cats and his mice
Who must kiss his great paw
And obey for the price
Of a whisker or claw
To hold treasure unknown
In their little soft hearts
And unmeasured alone
In the duping fools arts,
For the mice all adored
That the whisker was theirs
And would hunt them no more
To their hidden home lairs
And the claw would not strike
Like a clock in the night
At the midnight of life
With a playful last bite,
But the whisker was grass
From a field of mouse bones
And the claw was chipped glass
Off cat’s crystal high throne
So the mice made their bed
On the teeth of cat king
And they safely self-fed
Their whole lives to the thing
That sure purred they were saved
By its power and grace
And they rushed to their graves
As if it were a race.
It’s a sign of the times
When the mice are reborn
As loud crickets whose rhymes
Pour a chorus of scorn,
Yet the old king grows frail
And he too will soon pass
To come back through the veil
As a lone blade of grass.