One reader complained about my once again bringing up Dante in a post. Again with the Dante, he moaned. Which prompted the most excellent versifier Roland de Chanson to deliver the following Evans-Manning-worthy poem:

As Dreher by his hearthstone sat
A cup of cocoa clasping,
Upon him sprang a hell-loosed cat,

That set him sorely gasping.
What ghastly spectre art thou, beast?
Who art my throat a-grasping.

I am the wraith of one deceased
I sang of popes and bishops burning.
I was bethought a grand artiste,

The praise of mortal men ne’er spurning.
For this delict I am doomed to hell,
Perdurant pain my folly earning.

My name, you ask? I shall not tell.
‘Cause dammit, Dreher, you look unwell.

— A bit of catterel (*) written not at home.

(*) Catterel is a twelfth-century Provençal verse form for poetry that does not rise to the level of doggerel. A feline protagonist is de rigueur.

That. Is. Greatness.