She doesn’t feed me. Not at all.
I’m getting so much thinner.
In fact (apart from several treats)
I’ve not been fed since dinner!
I speak your language pretty well,
There’s ‘breakfast’, ‘lunch’ and ‘tea’…
‘Elevenses’ and ‘supper’ too,
So why just two for me?
She says that I am getting fat,
A touch too widely waisted,
Because of all the stuff I eat
That she has barely tasted.
I say before she breaks my heart
And puts me on a diet,
She should look in the mirror first…
That ought to keep her quiet!
And if she doesn’t want to give me treats…
To stop her bitching,
I’ve told her, all she has to do
Is stay out of the kitchen!
It’s not my fault the treats are kept
Midway towards the kettle…
I’m duty-bound to ask for one…
It keeps her on her mettle.
But when all else has failed me
And I’ve begged all I am able…
There’s always something I can eat
By raiding the bird-table