I shouldn’t sit at the computer so long writing poems for you.
It makes my leg and ankle hurt, it’s not what I’m supposed to do.
But I can’t help the writing, I can’t help this stupid urge to type.
I enjoy so much getting a follow or a like.
Plus then I tell myself, “Oh silly Cat, that pain is dull,
you can hardly feel it, it’s not even there at all!”
And then I go on writing, go on composing rhymes.
I try to rise and stretch, but I lose track of time.
My therapist would be mad at me, she would probably stand and glare,
but of course, lucky for you, my therapist’s not here.
For then I probably wouldn’t be writing, or at least not sitting while I write
And lying while writing makes it difficult to type.
But I probably shouldn’t burden you with these worries and these fears,
Because nothing’s going to stop me from typing to my ears.
I can’t help it, not when I have nothing else to do.
And, after all, I really do love typing for you.