He'll sniff a steak with disdain, then lick a dusty broom.
He's got a nose for garbage, and a taste for what's bizarre,
A feather, a shoelace, a dead cockroach in the jar.
He'll bat at flies with fervor, then ignore his fancy food,
He's got a stomach of steel, a digestive system good.
But when I offer tuna, he purrs with gentle grace,
And devours it with gusto, a mischievous, furry face.
My cat's a culinary enigma, a puzzle I can't solve,
But one thing's for certain, he's a master of the "I'm-in-charge" growl.