Here abides Roosevelt, like unto none,
creature of darkness with a secret sun,
black as the marrow of a moonless night,
with yellow eyes glinting a wintry light.

Survivor of many a deadly bout,
diabetic, more than a little stout,
too frequently under a surgeon’s knife,
he led every day a difficult life.

On a summer’s night, while still a kitten,
by a large racoon he was gravely bitten ~
his spine, sorely injured, was never the same ~
ever after he was partially lame.

Yet despite misfortune, malady, pain,
there was no high place he couldn’t attain ~
when he was rendered unable to jump,
burly-shouldered, he pulled himself up.

In build a bulldog, a brusque little bear,
with parts of him scruffy or missing hair ~
within his eyes a quiescent power,
a disposition markedly dour.

In a household of larger, younger cats,
he held his sovereignty to the last,
like a tiny Gibraltor he could keep
dominion even while fast asleep.

In a district known for dissolute sorts,
Roosevelt often stood guard on the porch,
and every stranger who mounted that stair
met with the menace of Roosevelt’s glare.

Yet each small child in the neighborhood
held Roosevelt worthy of every good ~
they made of his birthday a backyard event,
with candles and cake in a festive tent.

Minstrels relate how, one Halloween,
among the children Roosevelt was seen,
their escort and guardian, street to street,
keeping watch as they shouted trick or treat.

Though by countless grave infirmities plagued,
he somehow endured into staunch old age ~
‘mid all other creatures he stood apart,
a gruff little guy with a lion’s heart.