Are likewise held beneath the spout, Or soon or later parcelled out To someone who beyond a doubt Enjoys the feel of cats about,
It will be fitting to observe That we have done our best to serve This purring matron through each curve Of her plain, boundless, common nerve.
We’ve done our best—as one may see, To quell each base antipathy, That she—our Tab might still be free To rear her endless progeny.
DANGER!
Look out! Don’t touch me, man, I’m sore! I’m ulcerous—I’m more, I boil, I fume, I sizzle, I’m Cantankerous to the core.
A blister that is being shaved, A wild cat up a tree. A chestnut-bur with every spur An exposed nerve—that’s me!
I am the heat that turns to flame When in Fate’s glass is caught The world’s choice store of toughest luck And focused on one spot.
What’s wrong? Why, eighty dozen things, Each one of which would stall An ORDINARY man—it’s just My rotten day, that’s all!