By Robert Frost's Cat
Whose chair this is by now I know.
He's somewhere in the forest though;
He will not see me sitting here
A place I'm not supposed to go.
He really is a little queer
To leave his fire's cozy cheer
And ride out by the frozen lake
The coldest evening of the year.
To love the snow it takes a flake:
The chill that makes your footpads ache,
The drifts too high to lurk or creep,
The icicles that drip and break.
His chair is comfy, soft and deep.
But I have got an urge to leap,
And mice to catch before I sleep,
And mice to catch before I sleep.
