(With apologies to T.S. Eliot; based on an apocryphal title proposed by a reader on seeing the new illustration)
Well Betty is a thurible cat,
she swings it within canon law,
the censer flies above her hat
but never leaves her paw,
the smoke does billow through the nave,
and fills the soul with joy,
And Betty does the incense crave,
though the low church mutters "oy".
Betty cat, oh, Betty cat, there's no one like the thurifer,
She's the expert who can produce the smoke,
while you hear the purr of her;
The joss will scent the altar,
she ignites it with welsh coke,
And when you lift the chalice,
the organist may choke.