Midnight Peaches

Methinks it absurd that you businessmen and Beefeaters waste your night hours swaddled in sheets and blankies. Sleeping is for willows and I have no cat to nap with. For what is a pillow but a footrest rest for your head. A bed is but a coffin for the sleeping. What do I do when the sun goes to Tokyo? I spend my night hours with the Bob Cats and the fluffy foxes. A-HUNTIN'! Through yonder window I descend and make my way down the leaf covered footpaths of my suburban neighborhood.
It was by day that I first caught sight of my quarry, while pursuing the distant chimes of the Good Humor Man. Tripping over the golden orbs, which in my haste I mistook for sun-bleached tennis ball. Now, in night-dark, it is not the fuzzy skin of tennis balls to which I sink my sharpest mouth-teeth. No, the foxes have deceived you. Illuminated by the distant glow of lamp-light, I stand by the feet of a solitary tree, and devour the soft and dripping flesh of Midnight Peaches, Midnight Peaches.
Abloom through the last warm weeks of the summer. The lone tree bore its fruit in the depths of misty valleys and the shadows of pine boughs. I have been drawn from my bed; like a bee to nectar. I eat and eat and eat Midnight Peaches. They taste like moonlight, and loneliness, and peaches. Weeping, the sweet juices drip down my chin and stain my night shirt. By dawn, the foxes and I are buried alive in our beds. Bob Cats and Japanese children rub their tired eyes. But I never sleep. I wants me some Midnight Peaches.