Once was a time,
in New York's jungle in a tree,
before I went into the world
in search of other kinds of love
nobody owned me but a cat named Sloopy.
Looking back
perhaps she's been
the only human thing
that ever gave back love to me.
Suppose you wrote these lines one night and instead of tearing them up the next morning took them to a publisher. What would happen? Surely, in the great, big, tough new world of black-and-blue humor, four-letter words, and agonizing alienation, the publisher would throw you out. But then again...
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