Beware the Wolf-Dog chained behind the shed!
He's not partial to strangers, that's a fact;
It's been a good eight hours since he was fed,
And I don't rightly know how he'd react.
He weighs about two-eighty when he's dry;
His tongue rolls out, a slippery slab of meat;
Got teeth like tent pegs, murder in his eye,
And I can't find a thing the beast won't eat.
He wasn't like this when he first showed up
On my doorstep, a starving, tragic stray;
Became a loving, playful little pup,
Though you can't see the cub in him today.
It's hard having a Wolf-Dog for a pet;
But he's mine, and he hasn't killed me yet.
1 comment:
There's a house near the freeway between Little Rock and Fort Smith (I always forget exactly where until I see it) with a corrugated tin shed in the back yard, facing the interstate. Painted in huge letters on the back of the black-painted tin are the words "BEWARE - WOLF DOGS!"
That was the inspiration for this poem.
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