Such royalty graces our carpet.
Your whiskerness. Moody
senile hatred is quenched
by kneading affection and lazy slumber.
How odd! A crimson studded
collar for crown? Yet
stately stride and
magestic fur robe, wagging behind.
He yawns of boredom. Yet
the locusts still amaze him,
enwrapping chirps and
enchanting songs of backyard jungle’s safari.