Methinks the scoundrel doth protest too much, for loud he crieth "Bung Buggerer!" at every passing soul, whilst his own fingers be deep within arce-hooles . He casteth stones from a house of brittle glass, condemning in others the very vice that dwelleth within his breast. Yet hear him further proclaim that he is no Bung Buggerer, and with great fervour and indignation defendeth those of his own kind, as though loud denial might transform falsehood into truth. "I am what I am, and I am not what is not me," quoth he, as though wisdom itself had descended from the heavens to dwell upon his tongue.
But alas, beneath such lofty speech lieth a simpler truth. I am no lion, nor eagle, nor noble stag. I am but a cat—stealthy of paw, keen of eye, and silent of tread. With these eyes I behold the sky, the land, the sun, and the far horizon. I watch whilst others boast. I listen whilst others deceive. Though but a humble cat, I know a hypocrite when I see one, a rat when I smell one, and a braggart when I hear one. For nature hath granted me neither crown nor title, yet it hath bestowed upon me the gifts of observation and patience. Thus do I sit upon the wall and mark the passing of men, and of all creatures I have known, none are so eager to denounce the faults of others as those most burdened by the same within themselves.