She’s got a really rotten cold
And isn’t feeling well,
She’s curled up on the sofa
And she looks as rough as hell.
The good thing is it’s ‘feed a cold’
As far as I can tell,
Which means, of course, she really must
Keep feeding me as well
And all the stuff that’s in the fridge…
Leftover new year’s fare…
The pies and pastries, nicely cooked
And all designed to share,
I’m having to dispose of
Because no-one else is there…
And she can’t seem to manage much
‘Cause sometimes, life’s unfair…
She says if I keep eating
Then I’ll only end up fat.
I say that she’s no room to talk
Or criticise on that
‘Cause she’s a bit balloonified…
She says I’m full of chat!
But if she wanted silence
Then she should have had a cat.