Three little(1) kittens
have lost their mittens(2)
and they’ve begun to cry,(3)
“Oh, mother dear, we sadly fear,(4)
That we have lost our mittens.”(5)
“What? Your mittens!(6)
You naughty(7) kittens,
Then you shall have no pie.(8)
Meow, meow, meow,
Then you shall have no pie.(9)

  • Well, neither Switters nor Munch are little. And Tolkien could be classified as huge.
  • And by mittens I mean testicles.
  • Munch doesn’t meow. Or what I mean is: the noises that Munch makes don’t sound like cat noises. They do, however, sound at varying times like any of the following: a tired ambulance siren; a kid imitating squealing tires; squealing tires; an air-raid siren; a tiny, tiny helicopter; a child trying to say ow; and yes, crying.
  • This line is quaint because it implies that sometimes cats feel something like regret. This is how you know Mother Goose was a dirty, dirty liar.
  • And by mittens I mean gonads.
  • See notes 2 & 5 supra.
  • They’re actually pretty good kittens. They can all be a bit too aggressive sometimes, but I reckon that removing their little testosterone generators will curb that impulse more than a tad.
  • Seriously? Who makes a pie for their cats? Ash and I are clearly crazy cat-people, but no way am I baking a pie and giving it to the cats. They’ll have to eat it out of my cold, dead hands.
  • See note 8 supra.

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