h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

But Albert Ross has morals,
'As you sow, so shall you reap'.
So he swooped and circled in the air
'Till he spied a compost heap!

But refraining from crapping on statues and spires,
Had brought Albert severe constipation,
So that when and wherever he felt the desire -
And much to his consternation,

Regardless of enemas, syrup of figs,
Clysters or phosphate solutions,
His sphincter remained inextricably closed,
And he thought – ‘what about my ablutions?’

So he heaved and he strained, as the cat on his back,
Tried hard to control the mad bird,
So unable to shat – he downloaded the cat,
Now in the compost forever interred. (or turd)

The compost heap was warm and wet,
The cat was rotting , stank ? you bet!
But from its stomach there grew a tree,
That fruited well for all to see .

But you can’t kill off cats quite so easily,
They all have nine lives not just one,
So freed from the tree - a bit queasily,
He called Albert, to have some more fun.

Now young Albert had a stick
With a horse's head handle....
No. That was another story
Of a boy and a lion.
The end was quite gory.

The cat resurrected was something to see
His leafyfied tail looked a bit like a tree.
He walked a bit stiff, had some twigs in his vest,
And snug twixt his ears was a little bird's nest.
But his head was held high, he did not give a toss,
For at last he was back with his friend Albert Ross.

Albert looked at this strange apparition with scorn,
Arboreal cats weren’t his scene,
And said, “Feline friend where the hell have you been,
I’ve been here alone and forlorn.”

To please Albert the cat went to see
A surgeon, who could do good things to a tree.
This plastic tree surgeon was a wizard with wood,
And soon had the cat looking just as he should.
So again the odd couple flew away to the west,
Though the cat was discomforted by a twig in his vest.

Albert looked at this strange apparition with scorn,
Thinking, ‘Just what the hell am I at,
Traversing the world on a whim and a prayer,
With a tree-like demented old cat’.

The cat looked at Albert with quite mixed emotion.
"I like the old bird, but he hasn't a notion
Of how sensitive a cat is, I can feel his displeasure,
And know, of course, that is because of my recent
Adventure in treeness. But he should now admit,
At last, I am decent!"

Slowly, from beneath a rock
A lonely lizard crept.
He gazed around in silent shock
As this silent vista with his eyes he swept.
'Struth, he said, where the hell have they all gone?

Sorry - the poem got abandoned.

The cat stiil divesting itself from the leaves,
And regaining its feline like gait,
Regarded the reptile with undisguised scorn,
And said “Iain’t it time that we ate?”

Albert Ross – feeling peckish – said “Lizard! – Ho-Ho,
A handy small snack you will make.”
The lizard thought “§hite – it’s time that I go.”
Scuttling off to retrieve his pet snake.

The ground underfoot started shivering and shaking.
"Fly!" said the cat, "for the ground is earthquaking!"
They flew across mountain and valley and ocean,
seeking a spot where there wasn't commotion.

At last they espied a small place called Falujah,
Which reminded the cat of old Minnie-the-Moocha,
So donning its threadbare tuxedo and spats,
Went hunting for supper of black water-rats.

But if black water-rats
Were not to be found
Then white ones will do.
The colour wont matter
When mixed in a stew.
For rat meat is cat meat
The very best cat treat
The tastiest meat that a fat cat can chew.

A very old tortoise peered up from the pond.
"Of rat," it exclaimed, "I am really quite fond.
But please do be careful--as I, of course, am--
For some rats are really made up of old Spam."

Spam rat. Rat Spam!
Who csres what the rat am?
There's a peckish old bird
And a slavering cat
Who could not care less
Of what made is the rat.
They'll eat it with glee,
Top it off with iced tea,
And for afters---
A tortoise would go well with that!

The rat, of course, countered, "My taste is quite bad,
But tortoise, you'll find, is the best that you've had.
Or try some white mice, when you roast them they sizzle.
But roasting a rat? Such a dish sure will fizzle"

But Roast Rat sounds great,
And the terms so alliterate.
Although rats don't sizzle
At this fact they wont grizzle.
So they'll scoff it with glee,
And,
Of course,
Wash it down with iced tea!

The rat set the table with lovely Spode china,
And brought in his cook, who was just known as Dinah.
And while she was serving the roast beef so red,
The rat very quietly from that place fled.

The Cat and the 'tross with roast beef were well fed
And no thought of the Rat could then enter their head.
To highminded lofty things their daydreams did wander,
While their bellies digested they took time to ponder
On life, the universe, and other such stuff
'Til their small brains were curdled, and they cried, "That's enough!
The best thing to do now is just sleep it off,
Then awake to the vision of what next we may scoff."