Woody The Terrier-Ist - Poem by Della Perry
His hate is vile
He barks out little spittle of bile
Over clean windows, brand new
Breath so rancid, the steam
The terrier-ist hates that man in red
Running by with news of dread
Black bag flung over his shoulder
Staring at the dog with wide eyes in a scared head
He laughs sometimes, is it any wonder
That the hound wants him dead.
The dog bangs the glass with a paw
Scratches the wooden shelf with a snarl
Lets out a whimper of anger
Resumes his howl once more
It's a good job there is a strong door.
For he would devour that man rushing by,
that white van, that feline, the woman from next door,
The lady with the pram, the screeching youths, the motorbike roar,
He'd kill them all,
If it wasn't for that strong door
Woody the Terrier-ist dog.
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