When T.S.(milkstain) Eliot moved with me to a private house in Tuscany, Italy he would check out the property as if was it was his own private hunting grounds. he was a most particular cat and I loved all his of idiosyncrasies. The poem pays tribute to this king among cats;
T.S.(milkstain) Eliot
He was T. in the morning
announcing the reverie at his
prescribed purrs.
He was T.S. in the day
hunting and sleeping
With feline nonchalance.
He was T.S. Eliot
with a trademark milk stain
to break otherwise perfect lines.
And so shall he remain...
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