I could poke you with a big stick
But still you wouldn't wake
You're like a camel who stores sleep
Counting field mice instead of sheep.

One long day and a short summer's
Night; twenty four hours straight.
In the sunshine you stealth stalk then
Darkness cloaks as you lie in wait

We know you take it seriously
But do you have to crunch
Their poor, hapless bones so loudly?
(Hardly behaving politely) .

You cough up mice corpses
With their crunched heads.
They're a strange kind of litter
Amongst the flower beds.
But we love you dearly
Despite your crimes.
You own us both completely
And squint at us sometimes.

Maureen Pickford

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hunter-cat/