The dog, who's on the couch, scratches his ear.
His tag takes on the semblance of a bell,
and maybe somewhere, not too far from here,
a Pixie Fire Brigade mistakes the knell
of that aluminum identifier
for some alarm sent up from forest keeps
of their Dread Pixie Overlord, whose ire
they should not wish to court. He never sleeps.
And so they rush from out their mushroom beds,
strap on their gear, fill thimbles full of dew,
to quench a blaze that's only in their heads.
They'd mock their own confusion, if they knew.
The Pixie Lords may punish as they please.
Meanwhile, I think I'll treat my dog for fleas.
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