David Lewis Paget
The Burglar Dog - Poem by David Lewis Paget
I have a dog called Harry,
He’s a Maltese-Poodle cross,
I don’t know how I got him -
(He saw me coming! – Of course!)
The little rat sleeps on my couch
And scatters his bones about,
His hair’s all over the washing pile
And I’m constantly kicking him out.
Then he goes for the doggy wounded look,
And lies in the sun, outside,
Rolls in the grass and the prickles, waits
For my temper to subside.
I say – ‘Who spilt the rubbish, then,
All over the kitchen floor? ’
He sniffs – ‘It was the Burglar Dog.’
- Refuses to say any more.
The Burglar Dog, the Burglar Dog!
That’s all that I ever hear,
Whenever my steak goes missing
It’s the Burglar Dog, I fear.
He comes in the house while I’m in bed,
And Harry’s asleep on the couch,
Opens my packet of crinkle chips
And sneaks them out of the house.
He comes and he chews my slippers up
While Harry’s away, outside,
Performing his own ablutions
So he tells me - Bless my eyes!
Crapping all over the garden path
Where I walk, no doubt it’s him!
‘Not me – must be the Burglar Dog!
You must have let him in! ’
I’ve never seen this Burglar Dog
But I’m going to lie in wait,
Set up my digital camera then,
And catch this dog in the act;
But if it happens to be pure white,
All fluffy and one foot tall,
Harry will have some explaining to do -
Or I’ll take away his ball(s) !
25 December 2007
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