The small black cat is sitting on my chair
Two cushions warm with sun provide a nest
Its little face is happy, its plate bare.
This is easier than a love affair
This is sweet , it is a needed rest
The small black cat is sitting on my chair
I don’t think in my grief that I can bear
A man whose love might put me to the test
The cat is happy and its plate is bare.
Could I start again to cook and care
For anyone with hairs upon their chest?
The small black cat is lounging on my chair,
Yet cats can’t run their hands through my fair hair
Nor hold me in their arms when feeling blessed
The cat is happy and its plate quite bare.
And if I mention Wittgenstein’s great flair
That will be the end of the affair
The small black cat is sitting on my chair
Its little face is happy, why want more?




