If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.

Neither man nor any animal can enjoy life to the full without taking some risks to life or limb.

My honey child, them housing projects Cannot contain her multitudes A sunbeam, hard upon her Just a fly strugglin_ through her braid loops Watch me prove to __m I__ more than nothin_ But a ragamuffin with homesick eyes Yes, when it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me My love, she is a drummer Than industrial steel, her backbone tougher The eloping night and the honey moon that trails Just dirt __eath her finger nails I__l be down on them crossroads __il daybreak winks a bright eye And if it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me She__ heard all the right things And they did not persuade her She has no use for your words What she wants is your labor __ause when gringos speak of minorities They tend to keep their voices low Ah, but when that gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me

She fell on the bread and cheese as if she were a lioness. Did lions eat cheese? He didn__ know. He knew Mrs Prater__ kitten ate cheese. He ate anything. Poor bloody animal. Still, he was a slum cat, no reason why his life should be better than a humans' sad ruddy existence.

Dark alleys, like social networks, are romantic, because you never know what might happen while I perform there every Caturday night. Cats do know, but won't tell. So don__ even ask.

And I thought kitty liter was the unlawful practice of discarding small felines along the roadside.