Man, these cat poems suck. I mean, I wasn’t expecting much, seeing as how the cats wrote these poems, but most of them don’t even rhyme! And I don’t like non-rhyming poems.

Seriously, though. My budding reputation as a crazy cat lady must not have gone unnoticed by my family, because my mother-in-law gifted me with this little doozy of a book for Christmas. She meant it as a joke, but just because I have three cats doesn’t mean I am going to start knitting little cat sweaters and putting up cat posters and cat calendars and stuff.

Anyway, I thought I would at least read the book so if she asks me about it I can tell her I read it.

I got through the entire book in a half hour, mostly because the poems were short. Now, I know poetry is subjective, but these were more strings of words put into poetry format. And some of them were mildly amusing, but this wasn’t the great hilarity that I think the author thought it would be. Maybe someone who knits cat sweaters and whose home decor includes posters of their beloved felines would disagree.

Here is a poem that I am going to compose right now to give you an idea of what these poems are like. My cat, Aero, is sleeping on the floor next to me, so it will be a poem by him.

I sleep

I sleep some more

I sleep some more

I sleep some more

YAWN … STRETCH …

Time to eat!

I’m tired…

I sleep

I sleep some more

-Copyright 2013 Aero the cat. All rights reserved.

Yep. And they published this crap. What would Henri think of this? I’m sure he’d feel very insulted that his species was credited with such lowbrow attempts at the artform of poetry, and then he would sulk by his window for awhile.

Then I read that this author, who pretended to write an entire book of poems by cats, is also responsible for the comic “Sally Forth.” Honestly, I thought that comic was from 100 years ago and they just reprinted it in the newspaper because old people think it’s funny. Turns out the author is still alive and now he’s channeling kitties and writing poetry my second grader could have written. Sad. Just sad.

In the immortal words of Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog, this was an excellent book of cat poetry … for me to poop on.