It would come to him at three in the morning
 When his mind was sharp,
Worry like the flapping of an invisible bat
 Swooping down from somewhere
Out of his past, or something completely absurd
 Like the purring of a bird.
He feared death for doing what he pleased,
 But it did not drive him to his knees,
For, you see, a cat has no knees to bend
 And seldom acknowledges his own sins.