When the moon glints silver on the lion’s bay,
And the night wind hums in a quietly smug way,
When the towers shimmer like whiskers tall
That is the hour the Black Cats call.
For when Black Cats gather,
ah, stories ignite,
In shadowed corners soft as velvet night.
Batu hears it between the stones,
Bagheera catches it in northern tones,
Siti senses it in a healer’s breath,
Baseerah reads it in the veil of death,
Putih feels it where white meets shade,
And the Singapore cats
oi, don’t sit and fade
The call includes you, whether near or far.
You know the rhythm.
You know who you are.
It’s the night when the Not-Quite-Jellicle,
Still-Mischievous-and-Very-
Critical Black Cats convene in a place of feast,
Where no cat ever worries about the bill in the least.
Follow the clue only felines know:
To the hall where silver spoons softly glow,
Where the seven seas gather on porcelain shores,
And oysters arrive faster than rumours and wars.
No names are spoken, no letters spelled
But by instinct alone the path is held.
For Black Cats always find their way
To the Colony, hidden in wordplay.
So sharpen your steps, slip through the night,
The Madam has called
don’t make her bite.
Come creeping, leaping, sly and waiting…
Black Cats assemble.
The table is waiting.
