Ah, the cat speaks in riddles,
egged on by the birds of summer.
He screams for food some fifteen times a day.
He counts the seven doors and sixteen windows,
licking and scratching his numbers on them all.
He suggests that this cage of a house should be
cleaned, expelling a hairball to make his point.
Suddenly he’ll spy a clean pant leg, and dash
his paintbrush body up against the cloth.
Then he’ll moan he’s tired, jump into the nearest
chair, and promptly fall asleep.