When I am old…
I will waft through sunlit rooms
in fun-packed shoes
and sport a batwing like a pro.
I’ll be draped with chunky beads
My eyes will spark, my words will flow.
I’ll wear my glasses on a cord.
My hair, fresh-poured,
will breeze like my contented muse.
But I won’t have cats –
will their sneezy fur and toxic poos.
No I won’t have cats.
Meow. I refuse.
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