good christ how many pitchers of bass was that

I have no food. I have no juice.
It's pouring out, so there's no use
In plodding downhill to the store.
I think I'd sleep a few days more
If certain cats would take a pause
From blessing paper bags with claws
(They don't listen to no groan,
Just to objects weakly thrown
And all my bedside ammo's gone.)
So bravely forth I soldier on
Making some sad compromise
With pillows over ears and eyes
I shift uncomfortably in bed
And every time I turn my head
The Anvil Chorus clangs bombastic.
In other words, I feel fantastic.