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 heÕll 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 mistressÕ 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.