(First Place Winner of 1995, Past Presidents Award.)
Little Tetoe, he's just a porcelain cat,
Yet he can see all from where he sits at,
Watching with meticulous care,
Vowing to always be there,
Beside the stillness of the white death bed.
Little Tetoe, wears a grief painted frown,
He pines for the prince adorned with the black death crown.
With a soft meow, he comforts her spirit.
But she's so far away, she can barely hear it,
Trapped in a lifeless body upon the white death bed.
Little Tetoe, only he can conceive,
He's never been able to dance on a summers eve.
Creatures who move and breath,
Can not even begin to perceive
Of life in an immovable body.
Little Tetoe, he knows they don't appreciate
The small pleasure of eating from a plate,
He's never chased after a mouse,
Or broken something in the house.
When she leaves, will he be able to go too?
Little Tetoe, that day he'll always remember,
He was given to her as a present in the month of September.
She'd walk on a moonlit beach with Tetoe in her pocket,
Her friends would laugh and try and softly mock it,
Yet, her heart beat for his in a sweet melody.
Little Tetoe, has a chip on his ear,
But the mourning of her loved ones he can't help but hear.
Perhaps someone will knock him his table,
Oh dear, he'd push himself if he were able.
He can't help but wish to be broken into countless pieces.
Little Tetoe, sends a delicate prayer,
Urging the elegant emissary of death to take her from there.
With steely green eyes, he silently cries,
For his mistress, upon the white death bed.
Copyright 1994, Thunder Falcon