Miss Tuxie, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy ebony fur, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that is Catdom
And the grandeur that is home.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee sit,
A still and quiet siluette
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are mine Holy Land!

With high hopes I iz on bended knee
that yu will take mine paw fur eternity.