Poem.

Grey.

Run your hands through my fur,
and wonder at the softness there;
That is how the air parts for me
and caresses my sleek flank.

Touch these franked ears,
feel the raised ellipses of ink;
I hear only the fast tattoo
of my accelerating paws.

The taste of the air intoxicates,
I fill my lungs and am spurred on.
Look to find my quarry
with your weak eyes;

You cannot see as far as me
and I am chasing freedom.
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My mummie wrote this for me.