Stop me,

if you’ve heard this before—

what has nine lives and won’t come when you call,

leaves all its toys strewn about in the hall;

grooms itself endlessly, when it isn’t asleep,

what falls head first and still lands on its feet;

what stays up all night and naps all day long,

knows nothing of shame, of right or of wrong,

what sheds on every square inch of your home

and looks at you,

like you're missing a chromosome—

if you suggest this is all less than charming,

or, heaven forbid, even somewhat alarming.

You're probably thinking, it's fuzzy and fat,

it starts with a "K" and ends with an "AT".

It’s fat and it’s fuzzy, but it starts with a "P",

there is a cat somewhere around line 23—

the answer is Paulie. My boyfriend. Ex, I should say.

That’s all over now.

Good riddance. HOO-ray.

He maxed out my credit cards, wrecked my new car;

he spent all his time and my money in bars.

A guy like Paulie, I guess it just figures,

all I got was heartache and a cat he named Whiskers.

Whiskers is gray, he hunts and he pounces;

Whiskers, at least, gives me half-dead, gray mouses.

If cats had nine lives I'd have cause for concern—

one life is one more than Paulie deserves—

but you live and you learn once you’ve been with a few—

when you lay down with cats they walk all over you.

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