Young Mary Murphy of Windwillow Glen
Had quite a few cats
And their number was ten.

Til the day when Lord Byron, whilst playing with twine
Somehow fashioned a noose
And then there were nine.

The little one, Marmalade, next met her fate
Clawed apart by a fisher cat
Then there were eight.

Cinnamon, too, was soon ushered to heaven
Squashed flat by an omnibus
Then there were seven.

A terrible end came to Baron von Lick
Lost his head to a madman.
And then there were six.

Poor, pretty Polly ‘neath a drawer full of knives
In the end was too slow
And then there were five.

Elvis, however, whilst scratching the floor
Chanced upon a live wire
And then there were four.

And, Ichabod, hunting amidst the tall trees,
Ran afoul of a timber wolf
And then there were three.

Angelique proved to be too tough to chew
Cooked up by mistake
And then there were two.

A strange fate befell Noodles, asleep in the sun
Inexplicably melted.
And then there was one.

So Mary, grief-addled, took down her gun
Loaded two bullets
And then there were none.