AI generated voice/music
Person generated lyrics
Sweet Honeycomb
(Of all the cats I owned, this one was my own.)
Honeycomb was a pale kitten, off-white fur with rosy mitten,
Easy to love but hard to pet, as some fingers would be bitten.
He’d slink across a table, and in-between French wine and cheeses,
Over the charcuterie, and past the fancy fruit he breezes,
Stopping to calmly preen himself, next to our tiny muffin-cakes,
Getting some icing on his tail, another of his fun mistakes.
Honeycomb could sleep through thunder but he was startled by my keys.
He’d scratch at doors until opened, so he could travel as he please.
He’d hide behind a curtain, and we would see it strangely billow,
And he’d race us to the bed, so he would have his choice of pillow.
Once he left a mouse in my shoes. It was a quaint little present,
And he’s even brought me home a whole beheaded, bloody pheasant.
Honeycomb chose violence often, maybe just to prove his might.
He snuck out to the gloam and fought his fiercest battles overnight.
We would find him early morning standing vigil in the kitchen,
With a few new bleeding cuts, but he would never let a stitch in.
Honeycomb lived three years, and had no litters that we knew about.
He’s now buried in a forest glade, one that no one has mapped out.
Honeycomb is with me still. He follows me as though a specter.
I can sleep better when I dream of my little white protector.
I still see him chasing kitchen mice, bringing them back half-eaten,
And fighting my tiniest nightmares, always somehow unbeaten.
I am made better by the memories of my sweet Honeycomb,
And if I keep him in my heart, then he will stay forever home.