it is always the cat

they say it is
always the gardener
or Bush or Trump-
it is always my cat

sly and lurking
near the fire
on lush carpets
or under the table

as cunning
and as bad as me,
as you, in the corners
where nobody sees

the spiderwebs,
the cat, me:
for the cleaners
all rooms are round.

it is always the cat
it stretches its paw
and rips the hoover
open, dust allover

and nobody,
nobody at all
will know the truth:
the cat doesn't care.

the maligner, in the
comfort of hiding,
he will not be caught:
Trump, well, is not a cat,

neither talented with
grace nor with silence
and never as wise
as my cat, he will

be eaten by mice,
choke on his lies,
be strangled by courts
and burst like a bubble

or so i hope.
it is always the cat
who wins the game,
i am wisdom's servant

but  i only feed my lord,
the cat, who smiles
mischievously when
i think it is free will.