Rest! Drool with pleasure in my arms,
Phenomenon of lethal charms.
I see you fluffy, ten weeks old.
You smirk. We’re too surprised to scold.
The kitchen floor is purple-black:
You’ve worked a bottle from the rack.
A click of claw—the heater’s on.
A flick of paw—the dog is gone.
But these, we learned, were minor stunts,
For soon—ah!—you began to hunt.
God grant you everything you wish:
Dynamite for killing fish,
An anti-aircraft gun for birds,
A repertoire of handy words:
Like “sorry,” “I,” “forgot,” “to,” “say,”
“Just,” “borrowed,” “your,” “big,” “knife,” “today.”
I hear Creation click and whir
In you, dear bag of fur and purr—
In you, Destruction’s polymath.
Sleep, my little psychopath.