Garfield's Belly Poem by Roland Orcsik

Travel nowhere.
I'd mew myself up and down Paris all the same
like I do here still in the heart of my room.
Now, shall I leave the cosy
navel of my world?
The Adriatic is the furthest,
i would have there a fling of course,
at least if someone gives me a lift.
Position holy horizontal.
Let them run who have no beer.
No room for nostalgia.
Let them chew the past who care for it.
Every man to his own taste.
Mine requires a beefsteak with gravy
and then a delicious coffee.
Tiny is my god,
my belly suits him well.

Translated by Zoltán Lengyel