Through the gates, the West Wind blows.
The chimes of welcome dance and twirl.
With music mingles a cry of woe
from the mouth of a little girl.

A soft and furry Pirate, he,
who wanders, ever mewing,
through the shipyard timidly.
What is this kitten doing?

But come he�ll not, least not for me
who beckons him by name.
Who offers fish, with caramel sweet;
I hang my head in shame.

"Patches! Come!" You naughty cat.
Your mistress� heart is breaking.
But no help will I be at that:
no glad reunion making.


Penned by my hand on the 8th of Glacian, in the year 381 AF.