Sunday, January 25, 2015

The Burnsian Ballad of Rug and Dexter

Great, slobbery, fat and lazy dug
You lie upon the lino like a rug
Or rise to block our viewing of the telly
Furry, aromatic, downright smelly
Affectionately covering us with drool
A massive, moving, bloodshot-eyed footstool
You shed your hair at least five times a day
I hoover, but it never goes away
It blows around the house like tumbleweed
If you’re allergic, the last thing that you need
But when it seems that things could not get worse
There’s feeding you: Like dealing with a horse
Sackfuls of food just disappear
We spend thousands of pounds a year
And it’s not enough, though it beggars belief
For you’re a sneaky, unrepentant thief
Who’ll raid our bins, our pans and pots
What will you eat? It matters not a jot
You are a menace. That’s absolutely true
But we’d be at a total loss without you

Wee, sleekit, always in a hurry
You slither, jump, you scamper and you scurry
You bark at shadows half a mile away
The postman is retiring, people say
Because of you, your manic morning rage
Sometimes we have to lock you in your cage
Until you calm. Then you can be charming
Quite lovely, friendly, obedient, disarming
Anxious to please, to chase and fetch a ball
Though after seven hours, that can pall
Amazingly you’ll sleep right through the night
Though, sudden noises can give you a fright
And then you’ll wake the whole house with your barking
Even if it’s only someone parking
Their car five miles away. Your hearing
Is acute, I’ll find you peering
Into the night, determined to protect
Us from an evil only you detect
But no-one else can see
Still. I’m grateful you’re concerned for me

They have their faults, these two imperfect mutts
We’re stuck with them though. No ifs or buts

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