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