is constellated from thicket to hearth.
In the clawfest for the state of Catatoņa,
we fought the Dogatonians down to the bone.
They babbled their dogma, we countered with catma
ably spewed by a cat named Mahatma
the cat with the razz-ma-tazz
but the cat lost his jazz, fell into Stagnation
where the bucks that he passed
were as 12-point as this type.
He snagged a stag, down at the station,
swaggered back into the conflagration
screaming into his megalophone
then fell quivering, flattered by hype.