I really shouldn’t, that I know. My girth will only wider grow.
But what the hell, I can’t help that. After all, I’m just a cat.

I’ll sneak in here, no one will see, and gorge myself and then I’ll flee.
And then I’ll sit and lick my fur, and preen and sigh and give a purr.
For life’s not bad in this old place, I think to self whilst washing face.

Oh here’s the dogs, a scruffy bunch, who on occasion eat my lunch.
I’ll give a wack as they pass by. I’ll aim for head or even eye.
But no harm done they shy away and live to pass another day.
The stupid whelps give naught but grief, so keeping them defies belief.

And what about that other cat. That lazy black and white door mat.
He preens around as bold as brass. No value there, I’ll kick his arse.
I’ll lay in wait till he comes near. I’ll fain a strike right at his ear.
And as he ducks and moves in haste I’ll go in quick at double pace.
I’ll squeal and yell just like a nut. That cat’ll think his throat’s been cut.
He’ll run and hide that coward thing, and I’ll be grand, I’ll be the king.

But just right now I think I’ll sleep. And dream of food bowls full and deep.
I’ll snuggle here on this old mat. It’s good to be a Clemence cat.

Clemo