They met on Sunday’s wife.
A Saturday—she wore black,
A color of mourning, none other than that of the cat
Ran over in the street. She’d gone to try
To save its life. Time was against her, death to cut
The feline’s string. They met under the next sun.
They first kissed with the background of the setting sun
On the balcony of The Sailor’s Wife,
A restaurant with salmon so freshly cut.
And when the day turned in to black
His feelings for her, he had to try
To say. But in the end they just kissed. Tongues went to the cat
They first fought about the cat
That he bought for her to bring some sun
In to her life and try
To relieve her guilt from that day. His brother’s wife
Agreed to help. No black,
He said. Only white could make the cut.
A month later she slipped a cut
To her finger, startled by the playful cat.
So much blood, the sink went black
He rushed to her and held her wound up to the sun
As tender as if she were his wife.
That night she asked ‘will you love me.’ He said I’ll try.
Marriage wasn’t long after his try
But tries aren’t good enough, strings of anger cut
By any little thing done by his wife
His true love was just the cat
His eyes the darkest under the sun
So cold at noon, like coals of black
That June her first eye went black
That July she stopped tears to try
To be a good spouse for August’s sun
But September came and sanity was cut
And October’s Halloween found a hanged cat
By November she knew she was Chucky’s wife
Her body is all charred with black, for she chose to be his wife
In the end he had tried to try, to bury her out of love with the cat
But it was as if the sun boiled his brain, and like this he began to cut.
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