I curl in the sun, yet I may scratch with glee, I chase tails and shadows, nimble as can be. I may be on your screen or in your lap, soft and sly, perhaps taking a nap.

A biological elevator, its passengers water and sugar. Or a category for the maths and sciences.

Bumpy Skin Pleasant noise Yet always frowned upon.

Gently rapping at your sill, You won't let me inside, People see me in the streets, They hurry past and hide, It's not my fault, you know, I didn't ask to be, No wonder why, can't help but cry, It's lonesome being me

The drops that keep the world turning A lack of it would be concerning A soft, slow fall or an arrival with no delay It might leave a sight after going away