Then up strode Lovecraft, with feline grace,
Her sharp ears perked and a smirk on her face.
Brown Dog beside her, his tail in a wag,
Though his fur was all matted from a tinsel-filled snag.
“Dear Santa,” she started, with a flick of her tail,
Her voice like a whisper, both haunting and frail.
“We mean not to anger, nor cause you such stress,
But we’ve come with a plea, one we must now confess.”
She circles him slowly, her eyes they did glow
While Brown Dog prances lightly, his steps soft as snow.
“There’s a soul near its end, an old cat grown frail,
His time here is fleeting, his life’s final tale.”
“Yet surely, dear Santa, you hold in your hand,
The magic of Yule, which spreads through the land.
Grant him one more season, let him bask in the light,
Of hearths and of homes, through one more winter’s night.”