Blue blood, of course, not collar,
A king of cats, an Oxford Blue
Who loved our terrace
And after-snack sunbathing.
Or looking nonchalantly at Charlie,
Pawing an errant wasp,
And stretching languidly,
Musing on the important questions like what’s for second dinner?
Blue maybe, but never dull and gloomy,
We loved the raffish wiggle in your stride,
The aristocratic belly marked a destiny
For contemplation, not the drudge of work.
Your gourmet palette tuned to modern tastes,
You loved the smell of barbecues
And they who cooked them.
When stakes were high, they win who dare
It’s Blue by name but always medium rare.