That Alice Kyteler have her revenge –
vengeance for her witch’s fiery death –
St Canice’s Cathedral is swarming with
black cats familiarly making strange:

hundreds of black cats with burning eyes
upsetting the round tower’s vats of boiling oil,
fouling graves and altars, sworn to chill
the wine of Christ’s own blood to burning ice.

For coupling with the devil himself you stand
condemned, our ardent heretic, to burn,
putting to shame the heaven never ours

to lose and the fires of hell you laugh to scorn:
abashing us beyond your wildest curse
changed to a black cat, eating from my hand.