Our kitty is a sculptor,
A most creative beast:
Her new designs are mighty fine
Carved once a day, at least.
She puts them in a little box,
A present for her Dad -
She never, ever buries them,
For that would make her sad.
They’re parked upon a pedestal
Composed of kitty litter:
A veritable Cat-Rodin,
Her works, they almost glitter
Like golden idols, worshiped
By assorted pagan tribes.
They give forth aromatic fumes
Which some have called “good vibes.”
Our kitty’s sculpture garden,
It grows a bit each day.
As long as we keep feeding her,
She’ll ne’er run out of “clay.”
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