Musical accompaniment: Bach, Cello Suite No.1 in G major, courante.

*For Maggie with love.*

So you’ve got problems, or I’ve heard —
too bad nobody gives a turd;
a feral cat, a life that’s hard —
it’s dangerous in each back yard.

You’re feeling sorry for your lot
and all that crap you haven’t bought;
imagine, if you will, a shed
and water-logged leaves for a bed.

Nobody understands your gist —
nobody cares why you exist;
but not so far away someone
would like a meal, but they get none.

That nonny-nonny and that joy
are obviated now, old boy;
but if you cease your self-pity,
you might help out a poor kitty.

The feral cat likes sunny days —
I wonder if he ever plays;
I kind of miss my former pets —
I also miss those cigarettes.

It seems a shame you can’t get laid
but looks like yours make girls afraid;
it’s better not to think of that —
instead I’ll feed the feral cat.

I heard that life now sucks so much
and all at once you lost your touch;
but if you set out Fancy Feast,
someone will have a meal at least.

You’ve lost your looks and self-respect
and now your penis ain’t erect;
but try to be a better man
and open the top of that can.

I’m sure your pain is deeply felt —
so there’s a beam and here’s a belt;
but if you’re not so self-absorbed,
a cat would like some room and board.

I’ve heard from someone life ain’t fair
which makes it really hard to share;
but feed a feral cat and you’ll
see someone care a minuscule.