The Critics

A quarter jingle and snatch of verse
Haunt me. Well, it could be worse.
Nonsense syllables I quickly made
Produce for felines a serenade.
One cat rumbles; one cat thrums.
Okay, I guess I do need drums.
Jazzy, whose scratching on my scars
Telegraphs you think I need guitars
Pete waved a stuffed fish in my face.
He thinks I should add more bass.
Then Squeaky meaningfully hissed.
What do you mean, a vocalist?
I cannot even use my voice?
Mischief nodded. A good choice.
Dude sped up the sewing piles
I get it. But forget the smiles.
I won't calm down. I'm really miffed
No way you're getting Taylor Swift!