Cat song for All Saints' Day (with apologies to both Lesbia Scott and Christopher Smart)

Not great poetry, but nulla dies sine linea, you know.

I sing a song of the cats of God,
All of the Tiger's tribe,
Who mewed and purred and ate and fought
More than I may describe:
And one was a Jeoffry, and one was a Hodge,
And one cat lived in the Master's Lodge,
Plain or striped, with spots or a splodge,
Your cat is the boss of you.

They fought their friends in eternal fight
And worshipped in their way:
They turned nine times in the morning light
For this is how cats pray;
And one was a Rothko, and one was O'Keeffe,
And one Cassatt with her fearful teeth,
And of all these cats it remains my belief
Your cat is the boss of you.

(in case you don't know the hymn)

On first looking into an A to Z

It's been too long since I wrote a sonnet. I don't know whether this is any good. (Do I need to link to this?)

My talent (or my curse) is getting lost:
my routes are recondite and esoteric.
Perverted turns on every road I crossed
have dogged my feet from Dover up to Berwick.
My move to London only served to show
what fearful feast of foolishness was mine:
I lost my way from Tower Hill to Bow,
and rode the wrong way round the Circle Line.
In nameless London lanes I wandered then
whose tales belied my tattered A to Z,
and even now, in memory again
I plod despairing, Barking in my head,
still losing track of who and where I am,
silent, upon a street in Dagenham.