Saturday, February 16, 2013


 My master’s breath itself is none too sweet
 Since Ralegh taught him how to smoke a pipe,
 And even I, his dog, who smell his feet
 Must say no rotten meat’s more rank or ripe.
 About his mistress, though, while dark of hair
 And hue, and less than dulcet in her tones,
 It’s she looks after me and gives me care
 And, when there’s roasted beef, saves me the bones.
 While he’s ink-stained and in his writing fit,
 Muttering lines and tapping with his shoe,
 There’s nothing here for me to do but sit
 Or sleep and hope she’ll save me from my rue.
      But ah!  Outside the door I hear her tread—
      Dark goddess come, then I’ll be walked and fed.