SOUR MILK
The mighty kitten, Ruler of her world,Queen of her domain, Jester of fun,
Curious and sly, Stealthy and free,
No object too small or large to pounce upon,
Becomes her toy, Her every whim granted,
During the day, Warmed by the sun, Basking in it's glow,
At night on a quilt next to the giants she owns,
Food is plentiful and always full,
Nectar of the God's, White, Creamy and cool,
She drinks her fill before retiring for the night,
Her whiskers and furry little face covered in cream,
She nestles up to the giant of her choice,
Rubbing her face on his cheeks to dry her fur,
Then curls up at his feet, Only to fall fast asleep,
My wife thinks I walk in my sleep,
She checks the milk jug every morning,
Yet none is missing,
Every morning when we wake,
We share a morning kiss,
She turns up her nose and makes a face,
Every morn is the same, Dried milk on my face,
Sour milk is all she smells,
The kitten at beds end purrs so contently..................
Richard E. Cartledge PHOENIX 2/3/2010 (c)
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