He’s in my chair and fast asleep again.
His life is good, he’s on the gravy train;
he doesn’t do an ounce of work all day,
he’s fed and watered and he doesn’t pay;
boss of this chair, this house, he will remain.
I try to move him, but it’s all in vain,
he will not budge I’d really need a crane;
he lies all curled up and he’s there to stay;
he’s in my chair.
The chair’s his throne — he’s made that very plain.
He purrs at me with palpable disdain.
It simply doesn’t matter what I say,
he has no concept of the word obey.
My cat’s the king, forever he will reign;
it was my chair.
