When I was cycling through the sleepy valley,
the larks were trilling high up in the sky.
It’s kind of April’s gift to hear doves cry.
But nowhere I could see my old cat Sally.

I thought she’d sneaked into an urban alley,
where cunning rats and mice just live and die,
and where she’d meet some smart home tiger guy,
whose secret name could be jazz cat O’Malley.

I do enjoy when all the birds are singing,
when biking through my hometown like a nerd,
and wearing my grey helmet without giggling.

My Sally sometimes kills a tiny bird,
and eats it  in the helmet in my kitchen,
preferring it more shaken, never stirred.