“You are old, Mistress Pasha,” the young cat said,
“And your fur has become very glossy;
And your wise, aged eyes in your venerable head
Must command the respect of your Posse.”
“Ah, my kitten,” said Pasha, by means of reply,
“You are young, but yet strangely perceptive.
It is true that when cats in the neighbourhood vie
For my favour, they find me receptive.”
“You are old,” said the kit, “as I mentioned before,
And have grown most majestic and grand.
Yet to live with two humans must be such a chore;
Tell me, what fresh campaigns have you planned?”
“Each new battle,” said Pasha, “must be worth the wait;
We should not approach skirmishes lightly.
In the daytime I plot, and seek succour from fate,
For the intrigues I carry out nightly.”
“You are old,” said the babe, “but your teeth are so keen,
And your claws are so stylishly pointed.
You are truly the world’s greatest warrior queen!
I must bow low before the anointed.”
“I accept,” Pasha said, “this most reverent praise,
And I claim it, indeed, as my due.
You may now, to my visage, your youthful eyes raise;
And salute me with comradely mew!”
“Mistress Pash,” said the kitten, “you honour me so,
By conversing with me in this way.
But your time is most precious; thus home I must go;
I will no more encroach on your day.”
“Ah, young kitten,” said Pasha, “you fill me with hope!
Now our future is looking much brighter.
In my darkest of hours I will no longer mope:
I have found my successor: a fighter!”