An Ode to My Felines, Or a CATastrophe in Rhyme.

My bedroom smells like poop. These cats, they run my life.
Despite the best intentions of me and of my wife.
They own the place and know it, they strut around with glee.
They are the boss and show it, no regard her or me.

There's a litter box in my room because one won't go downstairs.
She did it fine for many years but now she does not care.
If we don't place the box up there, her business just goes everywhere.
She'll do it as we gape and stare, our bed, God knows what's under there.

These cats, they run my life.

This one wants to be fed, he rubs my legs and jukes.
I feed him and he eats so fast he gags and then he pukes.
Why can't he pick the hard floor, where it's easier to wipe?
He simply does not give a whit, it's simply not his type.

There's a scratching post that's placed in the middle of the floor.
With all this carpet 'round the house, they don't scratch it anymore.
And the chair pads in the dining room have seen some better days.
The cat that camps in there destroys them with her ways.

These cats, they run my life.

I vacuumed just a day ago but the but house it filled with hair.
It is on the furniture and in the rugs, it's floating on the air.
It is illuminated through the window by the shining sun.
I cannot rid my house of it, I chase it but it runs.

This cat wants some love, the other wants to play.
This cat wants to scratch and that cat wants to spray.
They don't like each other much and I think they don't like me.
These must be the most spoiled cats in all of history.

These cats, they run my life.