Little Missy Muffet sits on her tuffet, writing her new play about a terrible spider.

An obese operatic tom cat slowly wanders in, searching for a spot to spread out in a lewd and pornographic manner.

“Purrcell, don’t sit on my writing-table: you’ll break it.” Missy warns. “You can live where you like; but stop that noise, your baritone purring rattles my papers and nerves!”

“But Missy, I keep spiders away, I eat them. Here comes one now, down the water spout, ready to sit down beside you. By George, it’s enormous!”

“Eeek! I called the bug inspector and what does that ass of an inspector say? ’Put your curds away!” Boy, that twit thinks he’s full of whit."

Purcell pounced onto the creeping spider. “Anyhow, there’s no good bothering now Missy,” as the spider wiggled down his throat.

Now draped over the corner of her creaking desk, like a furry fat Adonis, she yanks his tail and he yowls, “Hey, don’t you love me any more?”

“Of course I do, you little fool, just get your tail out of my whey!”