Our Cat That Always Allowed Me to Spell Everything Wrong

R Cat That Alwayz Alowed Me
Tu Spel Evrything Rong

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Our cat that always allowed me
to spell everything wrong,
sat upon my father's chair
listening closely to the air,
then suddenly sang me her song:
about murflies and little brown mups
and dittles all in rows,
and scurry scumps and linckle dumps
with pink and purple bows.
And fairy pips with burning lips
and miniature mileys in glass,
and amber air where big cats stare
at mice in the molls of the grass.
All fiery words that cat there heard
she mewed into my ear,
so I wrote them down
just like they sound
without one bit of fear
of being told my spelling
was turned all inside out,
(I know I spelled uniquely
and that without a doubt),
for a forswinkle skates
on buttery plates
under the light of the moon,
and who can know
when a cat might glow
with poems or a rune.
And if I cared for spelling
I might have missed a line
of words that came unraveling
like balls of woolen twine,
(with which our cat would often play
when she had nothing left to say).
And often were the times,
in the heated midst of rhymes,
that cat would glance at what I'd written
and lick me like I was a kitten
just to let me know
that words like: phosphodiferies
and gully warple scullyscows
were special words, were burning words,
were words that cried for a child
to write them any which-a-way
just to keep them free and wild!
*
Now, I'm old, and I've learned to spell
a little bit, though you I'll tell
how I still remain quite sure
that our musical cat
who scorned all that
was not one half the fool,
as those who dished
up, like dead fish,
cold words to us in school!