George

George would always be sleeping,
The sun’s rays enlighten his fur,
Meowing as he stalks the birds,
Instincts going into overdrive,

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter,
Two sets of paws quietly whisk silently on the floorboards,
His never-ending talking echoes through the blackness of the night

Eyes strike yours like a star-stuck celebrity,
Golden, they were marigolds,
With fur softer then you could ever imagine,
His stomach bulging, as if it’s going to burst from the fur that holds it in.