Where does one begin
To talk about a dog like Finn?
You acquired a dog one joyous day
For what seemed a fair price to pay.
His whining kept you up half the night-
Oh, you’d been sold a pup all right.
Want to take a drive, go for a ride?
Open the door, be brushed aside.
A quick stop outside the butchers shop
And the drooling would never stop.
Return to excited nose prints on the glass-
Open the window- his farts will pass.
Take him for a walk in the park,
That hound was bound to leave his mark.
You get a doggy grin and a tail wag
And a steaming Pak’n’Save bag.
Then, once walkies were done
Finn might well fire off another one!
That dog was trouble, right from the start
And then he goes, and breaks your heart.
So farewell Finn and farewell Smith,
Proof mans best friend is no mere myth.
Mad Dog Days.
They’re still shivering in the aisles down at old El Paso
Though it’s been a lazy slow cookin’ Southern hazy crazy afternoon,
There’s a similar smoky atmosphere at Peppers Bar up in Dayton, Ohio;
Let’s pray to God (or whoever) there’s a change in the weather- mighty soon.
It’s a cold day in June and winter is here,
Over the land a chill bitter wind doth blow.
Now my nights drag on and on and I fear
This last winter of discontent only adds to the woe.
My hopes for the future faded, finale, mid-year,
Winter’s come and gone, and I’m soooo over Snow.
Lost In The Shuffle.
It’s no fun, waking in the shoes of the walking dead,
To see the living see then flee you with dawning dread,
One look at my shambling gammy gait and off they sped,
My food fast running out on me sure makes me see red.
There’s no spring in the step of the walking dead,
Perversely, we zombies are plagued by a ponderous tread,
Soon my quarry teased to a crawl, one tantalising step ahead.
And, oh, the frightful cutting biting stinging things they said!
With bellows blood-lusty enough to rouse the dead
The news of one slow and simple lost soul rabidly spread,
Soon even the old and lame returned from whence they had fled,
Now I wish I’d never raised my creepy head from my death bed.
I fear there’s no future in being a slow-witted dead
As it’s back up my own garden path I find I’ve been led,
Where choice pitch-forks and hatchets line my implements shed,
But I can’t help seeing that whacking big pick-axe, in my head.