A mouse – a mouse – a little, white mouse, Is lost somewhere within this house, The cat is sad; she feels so bad, Yet, she’s the one that lost this mouse.
Bathed in catnip, fuzzy-furred, Soft and pinky-white, A present wrapped in red and gold, A true, feline delight.
The cat enamored with this toy, Carried it around the room, Cats do smile; I saw her, Her cat-world was in bloom.
She tossed the mouse into the air, And caught it coming down, A hundred times she did this, Her joy knew no bounds.
Nothing there is that’s so much fun, As watching a cat at play, Uninhibited and free, Spontaneous and gay.
I felt a special joy, too, As I watched my little friend, Then a moment of distraction came, Bringing fun time to an end.
The cat now sitting quietly, The mouse gone – disappeared, I said, “Honey, where’s your mouse?” She looked blank and scratched her ear.
I searched the entire place, On hands and knees, down on the floor, I even got a flashlight out, The cat yawned; she was bored.
I was worn out; I was a wreck, But I don’t think she cared, She merely went to sleep, On the cushion in the chair.
“You idiot!” I said to me, As I stood with hands on hips, Where could that little mouse have gone? Surely not between her lips.
I picked her up and looked at her, We met ‘eye to eye.’ “DID YOU EAT THAT MOUSE?” I asked. She made no effort to reply.
Mouses come and mouses go, And all mouses are not edible, Explain that to a little cat, If you can make it credible.
Did I ever find her mouse? Nope. I never did, Whatever happened to it, It got itself well-hid.
I’ve also come to the conclusion, She doesn’t give a whit, But when cleaning out her litter box, I keep wondering, “Is that it?”
I’m issuing an ultimatum, To all my aging, senior friends, Your activities of late Have simply got to end.
Feeling weak and getting sick, I demand, at once, be ceased, If you continue such behavior, You could end up deceased.
You trip, you fall, you break some bones, Your heart palpitates and flutters, Your bones won’t heal, and you’ll feel ill, And your legs may turn to butter.
If you keel over at the mall, Nine-One-One, I’m sure, will come, They’ll pound your chest their very best, To keep you from turning numb.
Then they’ll rush you to Emergency, Where they’ll pound on you some more, If you don’t respond, I’m telling you They’ll take you to the morgue.
It’s not a joke to have a stroke, So that, too, has got to stop, Though you don’t feel ill, please take those pills, That will make your BP drop.
Enough, my friends, I say enough, And I implore you to agree, For if you go before I do, Who will be left to grieve for me?