Caitlin’s avarice

She won’t stop at killing

Frogs and lizards, eating

Them, leaving behind

Mangled bodies, led by

The blood and the meat.


Caitlin has no boundaries

She found a rat, she ate it

She’s irate, biting a man

In the face, she sat on him

To have him suffocated.


She leaves behind eaten

Corpses, beaten by her fangs

Blood’s hanging from her

Mouth, sadly she’s also going

South, the more she howls.


Foul play, she killed ducks

Eating sheep, sleeping around

Caitlin’s no longer human.

Barry Allen in the woods

Inspired by this:

Barry’s lost in the forest

He can’t rest easily, costing

Him too much, such is pain.


Chased by his grandson

A human head on a cat’s body

Led by the mistaken curiosity.


Furious, he has to leave him

Behind, the tiger comes and

Barry’s becoming wary.


Leaving again, seeing Caitlin

Whose hunger’s immense

Whose predation’s intense.


She left behind corpses

Of horses in the meadow

Then Rover attacks her.


Barry escapes in time

Exiting the landscape

Surviving with slits.

Censure of Avarice

A take on this.

Have a care, if you’re intangled

From being intoxicated by greed.

Wasting a lot in getting wealth

Nothing’s equal to the jewels.

Whoever falls into avarice

Gives life to the blusters.

I surely possess riches

For which is not yours.

Why should you work

If it’s going to waste?

You don’t work like a horse,

You’re Caitlin Snow in pursuit

Of prey, so that it’ll be recalled.

The Foreign Quarterly Review, Volume 5 (Google Books)

* llossetti, vol. ii. p. 389.

* Verse 108.

t Landino, after saying that ihe she-wolf, in the first canto, is Avarice, adds, ” who the greyhound may be, that bhull destroy her, is amhiguous;” but he then refers, for farther elucidation of the subject, to ” Purgatory,” canto xxxiii., and there we find that in speaking of the leader who shall destroy the harlot, he declares that ” by the harlot, the Church and the Pope ire meaut.” If these two notes be compared together, the exposition will be found sufficiently explicit, and Landino’a hint in the first note abundantly significant, ” that the reader, if he can find a more suitable meaning, may enlighten those who walk in darkness.”

The Young Lady’s Book of Elegant Poetry: Comprising Selections from the … (Google Books)

Weirdly apt should Caitlin go wolf.


HARK’ ’tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;-
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter’d boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb’ring at his back:
True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind,
Yet careless what he brings; his one concern,

Is . o § . ..”.
And, having dropp’d the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful, messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ;
To him indifferent whether Fo or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks;
Births, deaths, and marriages; epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer’s cheeks,
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill;
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,

Or o: responsive; equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh! the important budget ! usher’d in
With such heart-shaking music; who can sa
What are its tidings? Have our troops oal
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave 2
Is India free ? and does she wear her plumed
And jewell’d turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,

The É. and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;
I burn to set the imprison’d wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not such is evening, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,
Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage :
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage;
Qr placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not e’en critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read, –
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break:-
What is it but a map of busy i.
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the summit see
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft –
Meanders lubricate the course they take :
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved
To engross a moment’s notice, and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims, at least, this praise,
The dearth of information and good sense
That it foretells us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation’s woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age ;
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald ;
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder’d of their sweets;
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs:
Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterselto with his hair on end
At his own wonders—wond’ring for his bread.
‘Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns, submitted to my view; turns round,
With all its generations: I behold

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice, that make man a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates; as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return—a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.