We have our very own natural disaster,

And, of course, a suitable forecaster.

The disaster is an avalanche of sorts.

Not with snow or mud or quarts.

We have tiny kittens rolling down our hills,

Crushing our houses, schools and mills,

Leaving balls of thick hair all and everywhere

Suffocating fields and filling our streams,

Crushing our livelihood along with our dreams.

Anticipating the Catalanche is thus vital.

It’s done by a person with a suitable title.

The Catalanche Augur sees the tragedy coming,

By reading signs in the birds’ singing and humming,

Listening to rivers that flow from the hills,

And comparing satellite imaging stills.

If one is coming, we can prepare

By building a giant, designer cat-chair.

The kittens are drawn to anything to climb,

They stop stampede with quite enough time.

Gather on the chair where we round them up,

Trade them downriver for a ton of buttercup.

Use them as spice for the buns in the feast,

The Catalanche harvest, with flour and yeast.

Invite our family and celebrate the augur,

Who’s avoiding the advances of a cupped up logger.

This takes place once or twice a year,

A really nice reason to drink good beer.


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