He never should have tried to give the cat a bath.
That much was clear the moment water touched its wrath.
Eyes ablaze like burning coals, the cat transformed once meek,
A screech tore through the startled air, unearthly, sharp, and bleak.

The bathroom tiles was a treacherous sea where soap and water flew,
His hands was no match for lightning paws, now scratched and bitten through.
The shower curtain now a shredded lace, a victim of the fray,
As panicked splashes echoed loud on a feline disarray.

With damp fur, indignant ball, it twisted in his grasp,
The very spirit of revenge, a hissing, furry rasp.
Across the room, it catapults, a missile sleek and wet,
To vanish in the shadowed hall, a truly lurking threat.

He stood there, humbled, damp, and bruised, a warrior out of luck,
Amidst the battle's aftermath, the towels and broken muck.
Perhaps a gift deposited upon his favored shoe,
Or hairballs hidden in the night, a vengeance long overdue.

Lessons learned in suds and strife– some creatures hate the wet,
And cats hold grudges long and deep, a fact he won't forget.
With dripping tail and narrowed eyes, a sovereign in the night,
The cat had claimed a victory, in every single bite.
A soggy truth etched on his skin, a tale of feline wrath.
He never should have tried to give the cat a bath.