The Master, now his labour’s done,
Rocks and dreams, his mealtime nigh.
Faithful Towser gives a sigh,
He’s waiting for his evening run.

Towser’s brought his lease along,
He leans against the Master’s seat
And hopes the sunset-gilded street
Will be there at evensong.

Nearby, our Pusskin smells a rat,
Her tail’s aloft, her whiskers twitch;
Her paws and claws are set to pitch
That riodent from its comfy flat.

Aloft within her gilded cage,
Old Polly gets a bird-eye view,
“This cosy scene is nothing new,”
Squawks Polly, “All the world’s a stage!”