The Gardener's Cat

The gardener's cat's called Mignonette, 
She hates the cold, she hates the wet, 
She sits among the hothouse flowers 
And sleeps for hours and hours and hours. 

She dreams she is a tiger fierce 
With great majestic claws that pierce. 
She sits by the hot-water pipes 
And dreams about a coat of stripes; 

And in her slumbers she will go 
And stalk the sullen buffalo, 
And when he roars across the brake 
She does not wink, she does not wake. 

It must be perfectly immense 
To dream with such magnificence. 
And pass the most inclement day 
In this indeed stupendous way. 

She dreams of India's sunny clime, 
And only wakes at dinner-time, 
And even then she does not stir 
But waits till milk is brought to her. 

How nice to be the gardener's cat. 
She troubles not for mouse or rat, 
But, when it's coming down in streams, 
She sits among the flowers and dreams. 

The gardener's cat would be the thing, 
Her dreams are so encouraging; 
She dreams that she's a tiger, yet 
She's just a cat called Mignonette!

The moral's this, my little man — 
Sleep 'neath life's hailstones when you can, 
And if you're humble in estate, 
Dream splendidly, at any rate!