CLXXXI

I wake you with a touch upon the head.

Then faithful sounds your chirp that says hello.

You up and blunder from your little bed

and walk the house to check on all you know.

Then from someplace I hear you strike a whine.

You’ve found that you are thirsty after all.

I pace to where you resolutely pine--

a helpless weeping rug a-sprawl the hall.

How is it that you think to win my ruth

with this display of pathos in the morn?

Your pride all elsewhere tells the vain, false truth

that you’ve been blessed with all since you were born.

But still, despite your lies, you dwell with me.

So, kitten, I shall give as you so plea.