She’s got a really rotten cold

And isn’t feeling well,

She’s curled up on the sofa

And she looks as rough as hell.

The good thing is it’s ‘feed a cold’

As far as I can tell,

Which means, of course, she really must

Keep feeding me as well

And all the stuff that’s in the fridge…

Leftover new year’s fare…

The pies and pastries, nicely cooked

And all designed to share,

I’m having to dispose of

Because no-one else is there…

And she can’t seem to manage much

‘Cause sometimes, life’s unfair…

She says if I keep eating

Then I’ll only end up fat.

I say that she’s no room to talk

Or criticise on that

‘Cause she’s a bit balloonified…

She says I’m full of chat!

But if she wanted silence

Then she should have had a cat.