The cat hunt

The feral cats disturb our neighbourhood,
rip open dustbin bags, poo on the lawn,
kill mice, leave entrails on the patio.

So some of us thought we should form a club.
We start out after autumn's misty dawn,
on motor bikes with shouts of tally-ho!

and hunt for cats. We have a dress code: black,
protective helmets as the law requires,
thick gloves against the cats' sharp claws.

We thought of using dogs but that would lack
finesse: the coward's style. Our group aspires
to follow higher standards and deplores

suggestions that we'd kill a cat for sport.
We catch the buggers in a garden net
and drown them in a sack. No gun, no knife.

Some call it cruel—you know the sort:
the country types who'll make us even yet
defend our quaint suburban way of life.