She eats, she sleeps; my cat does nothing more;
her naps can last until the day is done;
her habits make her really quite a bore;
in storms she sleeps; she sleeps in beams of sun.
She wakes to stretch, her mouth a gaping yawn;
she stands, and turns, and lays back down asleep;
at night, she sleeps from dusk into the dawn;
she dozes well, adept at counting sheep.
Her fur, it gleams, no doubt from beauty rest;
perhaps she knows more than she seems to know;
I wake; upon my head sits a rat’s nest;
my beauty slumber never seems to show.
And though my cat is lazy all the time,
I can’t see her as anyone’s but mine.