The Cat Who Thinks He Owns the Chair

The Cat Who Thinks He Owns The Chair

I bought this chair, I paid in full,

It swivels, rocks, and screams “old school.”

It’s padded nice, it hugs my spine,

Or did, till that cat declared, “It’s his.”

He slinks right in with royal flair,

A little king with matted hair.

He lifts one leg, he yawns, he flops,

Then looks at me like, “Don’t even try to.”

I tried to shoo him with a fan,

He stared like I was not his mam.

I clapped, I stomped, I waved a shoe,

He blinked once slow, like, “That’s all you got?”

I brought him fish. He gave me sass.

I jingled keys, he sat like brass.

I nudged him off, he dug in deep,

Then curled right back and fell asleep.

He knows I’ll lose. He always wins.

He naps through news, my coughs, my sins.

He’s stretched out long, the chair’s his bed,

And I now sit cross-legged on the floor instead