I dream the Jetsons move to a deep past
Suburb: invade the menhir-vaulted home
Of the Flintstones. Gets
Weirder: everyone gets drawn as cats (yet
Smarter Than The Average Cat), so I'm unclear
Who's suburbanite, who's pet.
George Jetson pads in. "Wilma, I'm home!"
But he blinks and sweats. Neon auras ring
Judy his feline teen. He shoulda skipped
The officeparty mushrooms. Pulsing things.
Trapped. Tripped.
The cat's on the bed again, sans-souci. Pussy. Not
Flintstone sabertooth, but lion-size. Thighs. Is that
Wilma his wife as a cat? Mush-high, our poor
George is not too sure.
Wilma, that shopaholic showcat, surely should
Look nothing like a Stone Age beast.
But the bedcat odalisque
Shifts each time he blinks.
He thinks. Tries. REALLY oughtn't've popped
Them shrooms. George hasn't yet copped
To a possible worse: he's not off his head,
Not one bit--
Both cats are in his bed. Wilma's raised her tail
To their family pet.
Beefier, tougher than George. By Wilma's squeals,
Downstairs bigger yet. George, shaking, feels
Inadequate. He hasn't yet
Pondered potential worst: he may be outclassed
Even upstairs. Pussy futurist! Whipped by
Cat past.
