She doesn't worry about life.
She seems to lack a single care,
Forgetting hunger, pain, or strife.
She sits and lounges her limbs out
Her belly flat against the floor
Her tail still flipping roundabout
And slapping carpet more and more.
She's ceased to pant; her tongue is still;
Her eyes are closed in ecstacy;
She loves the sun and drinks her fill
As comfortable as she can be
Until her awful owner shuts
The curtain. Oh, she hates my guts.
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