I’m not trying to be cute here. I’m attempting a kind of exorcism. You know how a song gets stuck in your head? Usually it’s accidental, unbidden. This one I did to myself. It occurred to me while I was wool gathering a week or so back that the name of my cat, Elliott, rhymed with Camelot. Gave me a grin. Until I woke up every morning hearing Camelot in my head. So now I’m trying to offload it onto all of you. Sorry.

*******

It’s true! It’s true! The cat has made it clear.
The climate here is perfect all the year.

A law was made four years ago here:
July and August will not be too hot.
And there’s a legal limit to the snow here
For Elliott.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
For Elliott!
Elliott! Elliott!
I know it sounds a bit bizarre,
But with Elliott
That’s how conditions are.
The rain may never fall till after sundown.
By eight, the morning fog must disappear.
In short, there’s simply not
A more congenial spot
For hunting-snoozing-fighting-eating
By Elliott.

The King.

Elliott! Elliott!
I know it gives a person pause,
But For Elliott
Those are the legal laws.
The snow may never slush upon the hillside.
By nine p.m. the moonlight must appear.
In short, there’s simply not
A more congenial spot
For happily-ever-aftering than here
For Elliott.

*******

In case you need a palate cleanser, here’s what I regard as the definitive version of the real thing.

There. I feel better now. How about you?