The Magnificent Lady Grayson of the Silky White
Underbelly, or Just Grayson for Short
We were due at the hall in less than an hour, and my cat, The Magnificent Lady Grayson of the Silky White Underbelly, or Just Grayson for Short, was mixing up my mother’s speaking notes by employing her claws to simulate a Cuisinart. Shredded papers were flying everywhere.
In the very back, a little higher than everyone else, sat the largest and oldest cat I’d ever seen. He’d been white once, maybe. His ears were tattered and a single snaggletooth protruded past his raggedy cheek.
Standing in the hallway was a man enveloped in steam. I say man, but honestly, that was up for debate. His leather coat seemed normal enough, but the cloak draped over his shoulders was studded with small steam pipes puffing away at regular intervals. WAS THIS GUY STEAM POWERED? In one hand he gripped a brass-topped cane, in the other, a clipboard covered with gears. Perched on his head was a top hat mounted with aviator goggles. A monocle—a monocle!—adorned his left eye. He must have had a good twenty pounds of brass gadgets strapped to him. And I couldn’t have told you what a single one of them did.
So . . . it appears I write pirate sea shanties for bio-engineered pigmy elefantmen. Yep. That’s a thing I do.
First attempt at first line and chorus:
To the guns, to the guns, my cheery elefantmen
To the guns, to the guns, heave ho!
Ram ’em and cram ’em with ball and shot
Hold your fire—hold your fire—let blow!