Of kittyblogs and bloggerel

Could it be? Have I learned to make imbedded links? I think courtesy of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Creating a Web Page & Blog I may just have!

Well, well, well.

The author introduces me to two new (to me) terms: kittyblog, one of those dreary personal blogs that inevitably includes pictures of the bloggers cats, and bloggerel, those blogs that feature the bloggers poetry.

Frankly, yesterday's entry left me exhausted; something about writing all that out opened up the proverbial floodgates, a cleansing enema for the soul, as a gastroenterologist might say. So today I'll join the ranks of the kittybloggers and bloggerelers and make my deposits on the lawn of the terra bloga. (Note to younger daughter: you brought this on yourself).

I have no pictures of my cats, but I'll share a sign I had posted over the kitty litter box:

ATTENTION CATS!
I’m tired of changing your kitty litter.
You are hereby limited to 3 leaks and
1 poop a day.
No exceptions!

It has yet to yield the intended results.

I have lots of poetry, all of which is horrid. To try to give these at least a thin veneer of erudition, I have taken the first two lines of each of these Shakespearean love sonnets and, well, reworked them a bit.

When forty winters has besieged thy brow
And dug deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
And make-up smeared by layers with a trowel
Will not thy youthful glow ever to yield,
How will thy loveliness come back to thee?
Take heart! For yes, there surely is a way.
But know thee that this path is not for free.
A surgeon thou must be prepared to pay.
Furrows and frown lines hence are rejected
And beauty will yet hearken to thy locks
If thy brow is skillfully injected
With collagen and bountiful Botox.
And on that day when Death shall visit thee
No need for embalming thy face shall be.



****

When my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies.
And though she try to plow me with vermouth
A Lexus she’ll not get for all her sighs.
And as she tries to sway me with her charms
And tells me that my writing’s like the Bard’s,
My deepest soul is filled thus with alarms
When gropes she for my worn-out credit cards.
No flattery’s too vain for her to use;
Her designs have the clarity of mud
When deigns my worldly wealth she to abuse
And says, “Honey, I think you’re such a stud!”
My fate’s sealed as if by divine decree,
For with the last sentence I do agree.