I like my cat, I like him well, As all the house may see. I like him for himself, and not Because my cat likes me.

He counts his only work in life To flourish and be fat, And this he does with all his might; Of course, I like my cat.

His eyes shine out beneath his brows As eyes have rarely shone; His beauty is the grandest thing That ever cat put on.

He wears a paw of wondrous bulk, With secret claws to match, And puts a charm in all its play, The pat, the box, the scratch.

His mouth and whiskers, richly wrought, Some thoughts of prey express; But put your hand between his teeth And prove his gentleness.

We understand the savage farce, The game of frown and growl, We know the soft forbearing bite, And never trust the scowl.

I have not heard how cats are made Within their furry veil, But rather fancy Tippoo's thoughts Lie chiefly in his tail.

For while in every other part, His portly person sleeps, That bushy tail with steady wave, A ceaseless vigil keeps.

It seems to say (as something weighed And inly understood), "Thus to be happy, O my friends, Is to be truly good."