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The Cat | ||
| The cat rolls around on the slate in the sun, So happy to find that the day has begun. He stretches his paws with the air of a king, Awaiting the chance to hear tasty birds sing. He purrs with contentment when one does appear, But hopes are soon dashed when it flies with great fear. The cat will relax with a dish of warm milk And preen its red fur till it's smooth as fine silk. Who knows what it thinks when it stalks high and low? It may slither fast but it may creep quite slow. If I could have dreams like my good friend the cat, I'd live a round life that will never go flat. The tail of a cat is a thing to behold, But this tale is done; it has now been all told. | ||
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