[i](for Andrea Van der Veer)[/i]
Do I smell cake? Or hake? Or steak?
Or mayhap a pate?
Goat cheese? A squeeze of Brie,
If you please? A spinach souffle?
A snack, a nip
A gourmet-loving sip of steamed cafeu lait?
Andrea keeps me fed and sleeps me in her bed
And bathes me when I shed
And runs me ’til I’m dead
(She’s kind of odd that way).
There’s people-food to eat and every kind of treat,
Imported tins of meat, nonpareils for sweet.
She gives me cats to harry
And I hope she does not marry
And have a mess of kids
Or I’m out on the skids.
But if things will only stay
The way they are today,
I know that every day
Will be a birthday.
