My cat is dead and yet she is not dead.
I am a mite concerned about my cat.
The world is as it is and that is that;
It discombobulates inside my head.
My hat is red and yet it is not red.
If worlds be otherwise I’ll eat my hat.
Pondering darkly what I think I’m at,
My hungry sheep look up and are not fed.
I stuff the cat inside the hat and place
The hatted feline on a waiting sheep.
The esurient ruminant, without a peep,
Begins incomprehensibly to weep:
The criss-cross tracks of tears refulgent trace
Like skittering stars across her stupid face.