Crazy Cat Lady

When I grow old,

I shall have a room of my own,

An exquisite, spacious cottage

In a place where it snows.

I shall live in the countryside,

And wear vintage clothes.

With big red boots

And a hat that doesn't go.

And I shall never wed,

Nor have any children of my own.

No debts to blood or bone

I stand unclaimed by lineage or stone.

I'll live with my furry familiars instead,

They shall be named Freddie and Major Tom.

Their emerald eyes haunting windows and stairs

Or leering down from the ivory palm.

I shall not labour night and day,

Trying to hide my earned age

To please the eye of feckless men,

I step from mirrors, spell-cleaned from their ken.

They'll call me loud, unkempt, unwise,

The strange old witch with fire-bright eyes

They'll whisper "Mad—she's mad, that one,"

As frost retreats and springtime comes.

In summer I'll plant a modest bed,

With heather, sage, and thyme,

And sing to blossoms like past lovers

While I sip my burgundy wine.

And if some man wanders to my gate,

With smug advice I did not state

I'll raise a brow, I'll hiss a charm,

And send him packing off my farm.

When forests trees begin to turn sinople,

I'd write long lists of places I could roam

But smile and fold them neatly,

For now, I have a home.

I shall sit at the cosy fireplace,

Knitting while listening to the soft rain

Watching time curl like a sleepy cat,

And choose my warm and waiting lap.

Peace tastes sweet when freely earned,

Not begged, not borrowed nor phyrrically won

When living true requires no stage,

And the performer bows to none.

For hell is other people;

Or so the playwright said—

Not souls themselves, but crowded masks

And lives we're forced to tread.

So let them talk —Oh let them see,

The life they said was wrong for me.

For I'll be fierce and wicked, free,

A legend wrapped in witchery.

A rebel who gives men chills,

The crazy cat lady on the hill—

And happier in my defiant skin

Than any world I might've been.