My cavities, a mystery cat he's called the hidden Paul for he's. The master criminal who can't defy the law he's, the battlement of Scotland, the flying squad's despair. When they've reached the scene of crime, the cavity's, not there he's broken, every human law breaks, the law of gravity. His power levitation would make a fake stare. But when they reach the scene of crime, the cavities out there it's, my cavity's, a ginger cat he's, very tall and thin, you would know him if you saw him for his eyes are. Sunken in his brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed. His coat is dusty from neglect.
His whiskers are uncombed. He sways his head from side to side with movements like a snake. And when you think he's half asleep, he's, always a monster of depravity, you may need him in a bi street. You may see him in a square. But when a crime's discovered, then the cavity's, not there he's, outwardly respectable is missing or another pig's been stifled, or the greenhouse glass is broken. And the trellis. Past repair there's, the wonder of the thing the cavities, not a cat there, such deceitfulness and sweaty.
He always has an alibi and one or two whatever time. The deed took place the cavity wasn't there. And they say that all the cats whose wicked deeds are widely known. I might mention mango, Jerry rueful, teaser griddle, just controls the operations. The napoleon of crime, there's. No one like the cavity.