Sentence The Threehundredandtwentythird
Yestere'en, upon the stair,
I met a cat, who wasn't there;
He wasn't there again today,
Oh, how I wish he'd go away;
For Schrödinger’s cat was a quantal beast,
Alive or dead in a box, at least,
But the gaucherie,
Of Macavity,
Gave no satisfice,
To the Minister's mice,
For throughout the Manse the cry was clear:
A body in the lavatory,
A body on the stair,
A body underneath the bed,
On the pillow where the Minister's head

Is wont to lie in peace at night,
But no matter whether a sylvan glade,
Or a rustic shed,
Or mechanical scene where the labourers sup their beer,
Count the morning corpses, or dead at night,
The tally will matter not, it's right,
For the only truth that counts is clear:
“That Devil, Macavity's never been here!”