Though the votes have not been tallied,
and the soil analysis seems to have been obscured
by laboratory error, we feel very sure,
It seems that the cat
Has enjoyed some great success,
And now eats fine cuisine,
but oh, how we watched,
and applauded from our chairs.
She is on the screen.

This is not to say that anyone here is jealous,
or struck with envy. In fact her success,
though uncorroborated,
Makes us very proud.
We feel that the cat
Who has suffered such abuse
should get what she deserves,
But oh how she's changed,
and in so many words,
How could she have the nerve?

Oh, my little kitten,
Childish and love smitten,
Don't come home.
As if you'd stand a single glare
of one of us,
when singing to the door, now.

Now with every purr,
each coyly twitching whisker,
We see with contempt,
Obsolescence is moment by moment
Getting all that much crueler,
And clearly she knows.
Of course who couldn't?
It's in the papers now.
But who could've guessed,
that after all this time,
She'd make it back somehow?

Oh, my little kitten,
Star struck and flea-bitten,
Don't come home,
As if you'd stand a single glare
of one of us,
So whine and pout and fuss,
And get back on your bus,
And wave your little claws at us
beneath your crown,
But don't come crawling around
this little ghost town now,
When singing to the door now.

No no no no no (etc. etc. etc.)