They show up here every night, no later than twelve,
Here on Mockingbird Street, a less than elegant part of the
They prowl, they meow, they hiss and vandalize the neighborhood,
Looking for scraps of food, we all assume.
Stray cats. Many wild, ugly, unfriendly stray cats.
Often in the morning, the streets are a mess.
Trash cans overturned, garbage everywhere,
And even small dead animals lying around, bloody and half-eaten,
Mice, birds, and some children's pet rabbits.
Just another mess left by those wild stray cats.
Old Mr. Willard was determined rid of them.
He puts out lots of food filled with poison, for over a week.
They ate it, and lived.
The last I saw of old Mr. Willard, he was sitting by his back
Waiting with a loaded shotgun; waiting for the cats.
Late that night I heard a shot.
Afterwards, the cats could be heard squealing, meowing and
hissing, louder than ever, for hours.
The next morning, old Mr. Willard was found dead.
His eyes actually ate from their sockets, and tiny pieces
of him scattered through the house.
That was the last time anyone tried to get rid of the cats.
That's been around a year ago, I guess.
A lot of people have moved away.
The cats still terrorize the neighborhood at night.
When it's really late, you can hear them for over a mile,
Squealing, meowing and hissing like wild beasts.
Stray cats! Many wild, ugly, unfriendly, stray cats!
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