The year of the cat

Bustopher Jones
Is not skin and bones--
In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs—
He has eight or nine clubs,
For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
He's the Cat we all greet
As he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers
Have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impeccable back.
In the whole of St. James's,
The smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we're all of us proud to
Be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

What better way to celebrate National Poetry Day than campus cat and a bit of T.S. Elliot!

And a great tune.