she is of an independent mind,

this Jazz, this lazy, crazy Jazz,

this lounger on my writer's chair,

this snoozer snuggled behind my neck,

this switcher of long, black tail, back and forth, now and then,

this occasional peeker with her golden eyes,

to be assured I have not yet left my place.

she is of an unpredictable mood,

this Jazz, this black velvet purr,

this chaser of imaginary mice,

this pouncer upon my slippered feet,

this touch of mink, this flash of claw,

this indifferent passer-through my days,

this cozy warmer in my chilly nights,

who waits for me then walks away,

this Jazz, this lazy, crazy Jazz,

she loves me so,

or so I think,

sometimes it is so hard to know.

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