The kitten plays with strings
and paper balls.
He chases moths and butterflies and shadows.
Skids on linoleum and slams into the walls.
In sleep he twitches - what he dreams of, God knows.
The baby drools and burbles, cunning sounds
That always seem about to mean something.
In energy the little one abounds;
Those burbles all mean, "I am Queen" (or King).
The puppy has sweet eyes and darling waddle.
He chases everything you care to throw.
He chews entire households into dottle,
And shits it out wherever he can go.
Because all these and more the word may suit,
I usually kill the man who calls me cute.