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Simba's Domain


Bustopher Jones: The Cat about Town

Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones -
 In fact, he's remarkably fat.
 He doesn't haunt pubs - he has eight or nine clubs,
 For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
 He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
 In his coat of fastidious black:
 No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
 Or such an impeccable back.
 In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is
 The name of this Brummell of Cats;
 And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
 By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

 His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
 and it is against the rules
 For any one cat to belong both to that
 And the Joint Superior Schools.
 For a similar reason, when game is in season
 He is found, not at Fox's, but Blimp's;
 But he's frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
 Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
 In the season of venison he gives his ben'son
 To the Pothunter's succulent bones;
 And just before noon's not a moment too soon
 To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
 When he's seen in a hurry there's probably curry
 At the Siamese - or at the Glutton;
 If he looks full of gloom then he's lunched at the Tomb
 On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

 So, much in this way, passes Bustopher's day -
 At one club or another he's found.
 It can cause no surprise that under our eyes
 He has grown unmistakably round.
 He's a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
 And he's putting on weight every day:
 But he's so well preserved because he's observed
 All his life a routine, so he'll say.
 And (to put it in rhyme) `I shall last out my time'
 Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
 It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
 While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
 


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