There’s a cat in the broom closet and
I’ve got no pork steaks. No greenery,
no catnips, no scratch, scratch, snatch.
You didn’t buy me no barley leaves. Not
leaves. I thought we was brothers. I’ve
got no station, no sickles, no soc-soc-
greasers! Socialist ties.
We make excellent Quesadillas w/o Jalapenos,
of course. But I feel I’m missing out on the
Tomatillas, my rancheros, many saddles, a
pair of spurs, and the Romanticized West.
The cat in the broom closet is going
to starve. Poor Tom’s got no snatch,
snatch, to scratch scratch.