She is not a small cat.
In fact she is quite, quite fat.
There is a black box on the floor.
She pokes it, sniffs it, eyes it and more.
I think she thinks she will fit
but I shoo her off in a snit.
The box holds pens and small stuff.
Not meant for this bag of fluff.
I just know that when I rise
a cat will be in there 'fore my eyes.
Big of butt and small of mind,
if she thinks she fits she must be blind.
She is a dear but not too bright
to try to squeeze in a space so tight.
No, she is not a small cat.
She is, oh she is, quite, quite fat.
single syllable poem