Edward Lear, 19th cent. English poet who wrote "The Owl and the Pussycat," left an unfinished work when he departed this life, entitled "The Children of the Owl and the Pussycat."
He completed only the first third of it. What I like best about Lear is his flawless command of rhythm, or in other words, finding fitting words that fit.
Our mother was the Pussy-cat,
our father was the Owl,
And so we're partly little beasts
and partly little fowl,
The brothers of our family
have feathers and they hoot,
While all the sisters dress in fur
and have long tails to boot.
We all believe that little mice,
For food are singularly nice.
Our mother died long years ago.
She was a lovely cat
Her tail was 5 feet long, and grey
with stripes, but what of that?
In Sila forest on the East
of fair Calabria's shore
She tumbled from a lofty tree --
none ever saw her more.
Our owly father long was ill
from sorrow and surprise,
But with the feathers of his tail
he wiped his weeping eyes.
And in the hollow of a tree
in Sila's inmost maze
We made a happy home
and there we pass our obvious days.