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.