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Encounter him and even the nicest of girls turns into a - - witch. Little do you know that first time you fall into his brown-eyed trap, It’ll be your last moment’s peace before the growl and snap. Oh sure he’ll snuggle in and warm your toes for the parade, Come the final float though, you’ll find he’s a grand charade. And next thing you know he’s the itch you’re burning to scratch. Stop! That’s your ear! Stop! That hair’s your last patch! Tell him till you’re blue in the face not to feast on his tail. Remind him he can’t order a new paw direct via mail. Oh, and be careful how you say cease and desist, Never forget his temper’s too hair-trigger to resist, Eager to smash your ribs and puncture a vein, Vicious and thankless of your effort to ease his pain. Each time you save his chin or spare an ear, Surprise, surprise a snarl’s all you’ll hear. Just like a mini-royal looking down his long snout, Unless you give King Henry his free reign to lick about, Nothing will spare you from Anne Boleyn’s tragic fate. It’s a ’verse where you’re only as good as the last trash he ate. Once upon a while he’ll again snuggle quite cozy, Remember though, beware if you’re fond of your nose-y. |