Bimblepaw shot from the bakehouse of Ploft,
With a pilchard tart wobbling aloft,
Nibs yowled, “Oi, whiskers, your prize has gone hot!”
So he gripped it; his paw-pads turned soft.
They raced over tiles by the Flumpleton clock,
Past a bonnet, a boot, and a sock,
The tart hit a vane with a clang and a spin,
Then bounced to a chimney-pot dock.
Bimblepaw sliced it with one silver claw,
“Manners,” said Nibs, “mean you save me a paw.”
Three kittens licked crumbs from the moon-coloured slate,
And Bimblepaw whispered, “You take the plate.”
