Who needs a cat with its smug, aloof stare,
when you can have a dragon
curled around your armchair?
No hairballs to gag on, no litter box smell
just scales that gleam like molten gold,
a roar that tolls like a dinner bell.
Picture this:
I’m walking my dragon down Main Street,
its tail swiping lampposts, its wings unfurled.
You’d cross the road, wouldn’t you?
No "Here, kitty, kitty" nonsense here
more like "Hey, don’t step on my dragon's tail,
unless you fancy a toasted rear."
Cats claw at your furniture,
but a dragon?
One good huff, and your boss is barbecue
promotion secured, no HR to sue.
And homework?
Gone in a puff of fiery breath,
like a snack too dry to chew.
Dragons don’t purr;
they rumble like thunderclouds,
a warning to the mailman
who thinks he’s brave.
Leave the package at the gate, sir
we’ll fetch it after he’s had his lunch break.
Forget scratching posts;
my dragon’s hobbies are practical:
lighting the grill for marshmallow feasts,
turning burglars to toast
(though they never get past the TV,
artfully left in his food bowl
how kind of them to step so close).hehe
Cats bring you mice as gifts,
but my dragon’s presents?
A flaming pile of junk mail,
your nosy neighbor’s fence,
and an accidental singe of the hedges.
The yard looks better scorched, anyway.
So go on, take your catnip, your bells,
and your feline "charm."
I’ll take a dragon with its fiery alarm.
Because when the world sees me astride my beast,
no one’s asking "Got a moment for Greenpeace?" No fella no time for that, have you met snappy.
Instead, it’s awe, it’s terror, it’s glory.
My dragon, my friend, my living story.
And while cats demand your undying affection
dragons? They burn your enemies.
No contest, no question.