A furry force of nature, A terror in the hall, Mo Kitty has no interest in listening at all.
If the bedroom door is bolted, He doesn't mew or whine, He pivots like a linebacker and busts the fucking thing off the hinges.
A four-legged battering ram, A thud that shakes the floor— And Mo owns the room once more.
The clock strikes three in the fucking morning, the house is still, but Mo Kitty’s heart begins to thrill. For in the dark, a shadow creeps— While the rest of the exhausted household sleeps.
Steebee emerges, bold and sly, with a thieving glint in his feline eye. He reaches out a forbidden paw for the lobster toy—the finest Mo ever saw.
"You want to run the fade?" Mo’s silence says, Emerging from the midnight haze. No warnings given, no hiss or plea, just hands for the infamous Steebee.
A blur of fur, a chaotic dash, the sound of a lobster-induced crash! Mo hits like a freight train, fast and light, defending his crustacean in the dead of night.
Steebee retreats, defeated and worn, while the lobster is hugged until the morn. Another night, another victory won— For Mo Kitty, the scrap is half the fun.
