You sit, your ears on edge and whiskers taut
replete with chunks and biscuits from your bowl,
and lick the gravy that your paws have brought
onto my sofa, out of my control.
Paws done, you settle there upon your side,
and groom your tummy fur until it’s clean,
there’s fluff and bits of bug upon your fur,
I’ll have to put the slip in the machine.
You care not for my woes, or my travails,
why I must labour so, to clean the house,
instead, you sit triumphant as a queen,
and plot to disembowel a captive mouse.
Because you are the cat, you rule extant
I’m not the mistress, just the penitent.
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