The Cat Poem by Charles M Moore

I have a cat called conscience
who treats me with disdain
I'm just a slave or servant
looking after her domain
she tells me when to get her food
or if she wants some milk
and finds the hottest spot she can
upon my favourite quilt

All day she sleeps upon her chair
till nightime draws her shade
then like a tart she trawls the street
to ply her favourite trade
returning home when morning comes
she rushes in the door
demanding that I get her food
and place it on the floor

Sometimes she sits beside the fire
and then just for a laugh
she'll lick the salt between my toes
when I get out the bath
I know that I'm not good enough
for such a royal line
but then I keep her company
and she thinks that's just fine.