So yesterday on the subway I started writing a Sonnet about catbutt -- fortunately or unfortunately the subway's pretty quick and it's unfinished, so you'll just have to wonder what's going to happen. (Though I knew I wanted to sue the line "a goblet, a dagger, and buckets of blood" for maximum gothness).
One of the things I learned being and English Literature major was the phrase "On business from Porlock" which my professors would use to mean they'd been interrupted by something frivolous "Oh, I was grading papers and you, know, Alan showed up on business from Porlock and now I'm way behind." -- This in reference to Samuel Taylor Coleridge who woke from a laudinum trance with the multi-hundred line poem Kubla Khan fully formed in his head -- he began scribbling it down madly, the doorbell rang, it was some man, "on business from Porlock" who was sent rapidly packing, but upon picking up the pen Coleridge discovered that the rest of the poem was gone, forever, from his mind. So sad. But anyway. The catbutt sonnet, happily interrupted by the Porlock subway stop....
Penelope Peters knew the tale well
On dark stormy nights the cat butt would come
Scaring bad children with litter box smells
A vengeful and angry evil cat bum
She did all her chores with a smile each day
A smile of fear and deep seated dread
In horror the the cat butt would take her awa'
Feel free to finish it.