A Sweeping Kingdom
My Roomba sucks; though not deluxe,
my cats think it’s their Uber.
Through woollen hay they’ll ride all
delighting each YouTuber.
Traversing through synthetic heather,
yearning for the birds and weather
spied through panes of glass,
they’ll purr and whirl, their tails
the living room’s their beach.
A girl or earl, their paws unfurl
and knock down all in reach.
But mostly, they prefer to sleep
atop their rumbly spinner
and there they’ll stay except to keep
appointments with their dinner.
Each pinprick that’s made
by my calico cat
when confirming his need
to knead me like a mat
after landing with ease
from some flying trapeze
as his Cheshire smile fades
leaves behind a new tat.
My kitty will tell me “Meow,”
then washes and takes a slow bow.
She loves me but bites me,
when pet, sometimes fights me,
’cause cats prefer not to kowtow.
I once had a loveable gerbil
all wiggly and snuggly and verbal.
It’s too bad our cat
thought that it was a rat,
’cause now it is only a furble.
Sharing the Peanut Butter
My pup licked my finger
with a quick, tickly tongue
that’s too licky to quit.
If you were me,
you’d like to be
a pup and then a dog.
But since I’m just
I guess I’ll be a frog.
There once was a parrot so dead,
when he talked, he would not move his
The shop keep said, “Lord,
he just pines for his fjord
so you can’t have another instead!”