Real Toads, wants us to play a game called Bout-Rimés. He gives us the end rhymes with which we are to compose a sonnet. I hate sonnets. Mine is called "The Barn Cat's Betrayal." It isn't about a cat. Enjoy.
I chanced to lie, but by no chance was caught,
A fetch in a mirror ball; and to him
With the cheek to spin what he has not got,
I say, "The more you grasp, the more I dim."
While my double poses riddles, throwing shade
And dirge down old bricks where the ivy goes,
His sister finds the handsy barn cat's glade--
Me in disguise, with gift of bird and flows
Of every feather, that in stillness lies.
Mirrors shatter, spins cease and turn to stone;
What never draws breath likewise never dies.
Send up a song in funereal tone
And dig the empty caskets from the lawn--
Our gift of dust--for love, for told, for gone.