Cats (In The Style Of Robert Frost)

Whose cat this is I think I know.
His house is in the city, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his cat eat this old crow.

His wife and he would think it queer
If they but knew what goes on here
This cat is gruesome, no mistake
Eating dead crows gives me no cheer.

He gives his collar bells a shake
And chomps the crow as if a steak.
The only other sound’s the wind
That ruffles waters on the lake.

And now the feathers he has thinned,
And I’ve a feeling I have sinned,
How could I watch that dreadful sight?
I’ll not achieve much sleep tonight.