Somebody's moggy, by the side of the road,
Somebody's pussy, who forgot his highway code,
Somebody's favourite feline, who ran clean out of luck,
When he ran onto the road, and tried to argue with a truck.
Yesterday he purred and played, in his pussy paradise,
Decapitating tweety birds, and masticating mice.
Now he's just six pounds of raw mince meat,
That don't smell very nice --
He's nobody's moggy now.
Oh you who love your pussy,
Be sure to keep him in.
Don't let him argue with a truck, If he tries to play
The truck is bound to win. On the road way
And upon the busy road, I'm afraid that will be that,
Don't let him play or frolic. There will be one last despairing
If you do, I'm warning you, "Meow!"
It could be cat-astrophic! And a sort of squelchy Splat!
And your pussy will be slightly dead,
He's nobody's moggy -- And very, very flat!
Just red and squashed and soggy --
He's nobody's moggy now.
-- Eric Bogle, "Scraps of Paper"
