By Paul Klusman
Why for art thou still in bed?
It's half past meow o'clock! The sun is up my bowl is empty,
Into your room I stalk.
And walk upon you placing paws
With the help of gravity,
Pressing painful in a spot,
Sounding a mournful plea.
No inside voice calm and soft
But rather urgent cry,
Inches away from your ear,
Great poem, and perfect picture of cat!
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