My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.
So they bought you
And kept you in a
Very good home
The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I've also found, by actual test,
He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide,
He was just a wand'ring mongrel from the weary world outside;
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair,
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear.
I’m a happy dog at the beach
If I had the power of speech
I would tell you all
To throw my ball
If an inaudible whistle
blown between our lips
can send him home to us,
then silence is perhaps
I am his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)