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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342827" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memoriam</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid<br>Of many things in the world afraid.<br>She wasn't a maid who turned and fled<br>At sight of a mouse, alive or dead.<br>She wasn't a maid a man could 'shoo'<br>By shouting, however abruptly, 'Boo!'<br>She wasn't a maid who'd run and hide<br>If her face and figure you idly eyed.<br>She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shake<br>When asked what part of the fowl she'd take.<br>(I blush myself to confess she preferred,<br>And commonly got, the most of the bird.)<br>She wasn't a maid to simper because<br>She was asked to sing-if she ever was.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In short, if the truth must be displayed<br>_In puris_-Beauty wasn't a maid.<br>Beauty, furry and fine and fat,<br>Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that,<br>Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I loved her well, and I'm proud that she<br>Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me;<br>In fact I have sometimes gone so far<br>(You know, mesdames, how silly men are)<br>As to think she preferred-excuse the conceit<br>_My_ legs upon which to sharpen her feet.<br>Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much,<br>But I started and thrilled beneath her touch!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, well, that's ancient history now:<br>The fingers of Time have touched my brow,<br>And I hear with never a start to-day<br>That Beauty has passed from the earth away.<br>Gone!-her death-song (it killed her) sung.<br>Gone!-her fiddlestrings all unstrung.<br>Gone to the bliss of a new _regime<br>Of turkey smothered in seas of cream;<br>Of roasted mice (a superior breed,<br>To science unknown and the coarser need<br>Of the living cat) cooked by the flame<br>Of the dainty soul of an erring dame<br>Who gave to purity all her care,<br>Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,<br>Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice<br>By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise;<br>A very digestible sort of mice.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold<br>That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold,<br>To eat and eat, forever and aye,<br>On a velvet rug from a golden tray.<br>But the human spirit-that is my creed<br>Rots in the ground like a barren seed.<br>That is my creed, abhorred by Man<br>But approved by Cat since time began.<br>Till Death shall kick at me, thundering 'Scat!'<br>I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ambrose+Bierce">Ambrose Bierce</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342827" data-title="In Memoriam de Ambrose Bierce" data-description="Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid
Of many things in the world afraid.
She wasn't a maid who turned and fled
At sight of a mouse, alive or dead.
She wasn't a maid a man could 'shoo'
By shouting, however abruptly, 'Boo!'
She wasn't a maid who'd..."></div>
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