My whisky used to wear a trilby

Ashes, of what were his life
more than just a faithful true companion
I keep him in an urn of white
to my furry friend, I post this anthem

The greeting of his force 10 purr
at feeding time he would clean out the tin
for he was a cat-food raconteur
finish it off with a Cheshire catgrin

My whisky's spirit, it lingers still
his personal pride, would be my guide
to [u]clean up well[u]when lethargy was top of my bill
so sleek of coat and worn with pride

Out of the blue he adopted me
threw in his hat, and sensed my need
his eyes still haunting with quiet plea's
for friendships ties, I rejoice, and not grieve

Always with a cocky air, Trilby not quite square
now a sense of emptiness pervades
to smile when tears have dried, and seek repair
his hat proudly sit, on his urn to this day

He was Out on the townon a neighbours lawn
on Novembers dark, dank, Halloween
trick and treat, saw his last day dawn
a cruel demise that the fates had deemed

Malevolence, just fun as children thought
trapped my Whiskey inside an old oak vat
just faint meows, for days so distraught
I searched in vain, but no sign of my cat

Spotted his hat abandoned on the path
rescued him, so thin and so frail
he failed, but showed bravery to the last
his presence ever near, dust scattered by a ghostly tail