Non-Erotic PoetryTom CatHis name is Aristotle and he lives not far away.
At night I hear him as he prowls and tortures helpless prey.
Their screams can fill a stadium.
His victims crouching low; in death: in frozen terror,
No mercy will he show.
His eyes alight with cruel intent.
His movements match his skill.
Torturing moments of feline play precede the final kill.
The cat slinks past his victim with an air of disconcert.
The poor dead creature left alone, side ways in the dirt.
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