Borderline Love Lyric 11

Once so formidably sour a sour-
puss was I
that a choleric caracal
who'd tonsured w/ a pawswipe
the peroxide
peelteat top off
a lemon l/ it was soft-
boiled,

O such a choleric caracal
that, contrary to carnivorous quibbles,
did nibble
at the untritically
tart citric gristle,
picklepussing pith of a fruit
so unappealing, appeeving,
so Ideally

astringent & scowltasting, it was
as if the God of the Old Zestament, 
or the Platonic Form of Sourness,
a hydrogen ion 
powerhouse,
got up in that caracal's
choleric grill.
Yet

tho' this venomous
lemon could pucker
any Slam Dante's
ploutonian of shout
into a copied cat's arse,
tho' this villainous
sapor tasted
l/ a cascabel's kiss, or as if

our redgilded leggy lynx
had itself sprayed it.
Nevertheless, 
such a choleric caracal
would no more a sour-
puss be than that catty tank
of cantankerocity,
yours truly, used to be. But now 

I'm hers, no cap, these days I purr 
w/ homeostasis when my Cheshire
Cheetara flashes me a Selina
Smyle. Does she believe me when I
tell her she's the cream of my heart?
That she can put down her sallow pets
now I'm not such a sourpuzzle?
When life gives you lemons, make love.