Cleo is quite the regal cat.
Whenever strangers meet her
They must pay close attention to
The manner in which they greet her.

A "Hi, kitty, kitty!" just won't do;
That she won't allow.
She prefers, "Your majesty!"
Followed by a bow.

"Such a princess!" people say
On seeing her noble mien.
"I beg your pardon," Cleo thinks.
"Princess? No, it's QUEEN!"

"Where's my scepter? Where's my crown?"
She asks as she marches away
To sit on her throne--a padded chair--
And keep her subjects at bay.

If forced to move from her comfy spot
She makes her displeasure known
With angry looks and a meow expressed
In a very undignified tone.

"There's no justice in this base world
If subjects can treat you so,"
Cleo thinks as she leaves the room
With her pride taking a blow.

She finds a safe, secluded room
That isn't filled with noise
And waits for her evening banquet when she
Can surely regain her poise.

Her subjects know that her taste is refined;
Her needs must be addressed.
Food that's fit for a queen must do--
In other words, the best.

If the quality suffers, Cleo
Will turn up her nose, refusing
To eat another bite and thinks,
"I DON’T find this amusing!"

When people address her as Cleo, she wonders,
"Why don't people see
That Cleopatra is really what
MY name ought to be?

"But, alas, I must remember
That humans are all substandard.
They think they control the world,
And WE'RE the ones who are slandered."

At nighttime Cleo will seek a place
Where she will be undisturbed.
Everyone knows to leave her alone,
Or she will be quite perturbed.

She dreams of sitting alone on a chaise
Pulled by a team of mice
And then of eating her favorite meal:
Anchovies on ice.

-by Bob B (3-6-24)