If Only my Mom was a Cat

Sometimes I wish that my Mom was a cat,
I’d eat what I want and no more.
I’d lap up my milk from a bowl on the mat
and salad, I’d spit on the floor.

Cat-Moms don’t care if you tear down the stairs,
or climb through the window or flap.
And I’d make her proud when I shredded my bears
before taking an afternoon nap.

A cat for a Mom would be useful on nights
when I don’t want to go to my bed.
No turning in early or turning out lights,
we’d roam round the garden instead.

No brushing my teeth or shampooing my hair,
as Cat-Moms are scared of the shower.
And when I get muddy a Cat-Mom won’t care
just a few sticky licks once an hour.

I’m pretty sure Cat-Moms would never insist
that I make up the bed in my room.
No groundings or lectures or tidy up lists,
she’d merely meow I presume.

Oh the perks of a Cat-Mom seem perfectly clear,
no dinnertime rules or routine.
I’d eat with my hands and swing back on my chair
and no dishes - I’d lick my bowl clean!

But best of all Cat-Moms would play on all fours
and she’d frolic with me on the mat.
We’d snuggle one bundle with hands holding paws,
If only my Mom was a cat.