His Summer dried that evening sour,
Young Homer lay dying, his field, each hour.
Laid , as if slain, like the Lamb,
Pain disquiet until movement began.
His words could not say, what they actually meant,
a wag of his tail, a thought of response
Panting his way bid death's masked Babel,
Like Cobalt metal it drew his labe..
Cleansing his soul with God's peace to last,
Duties he performed right to the last.
But when the Siren's call resounded,
He conceded loss to his usual pundness.
With all his family who devoted care,
The dying phase ceased with memories shared.
Thursday, January 2, 2003