14 June 2012
I take my dog for walks at night So I don't wake to heaps of shite... Strategically dropped instead Where I step once i'm out of bed.
So out we go, though tempest howls, To tend to Rover's straining bowels. And here's my problem: let's not be formal. My canine's arse is paranormal.
Food goes in - bland, unassuming, But comes out evil, slightly fuming. Even Rover turns about To see the hell that's dropping out.
In previous lives I must have sinned Coz every time I'm just downwind. I retch, I cough, my legs they wobble As Rover's poo glows like Chernobyl.
Scoop that poop into a bag? The tears - they blind! You reel, you gag. So getting close? The street smells dire... Try scoopin' and your hands catch fire.
I'll warn you if you ever pass: Save yourselves! Fear my dog's arse! Shut your windows! Lock up your daughter! Your throat will close, your eyes will water. You'll breathe your last, and with that breath You'll still smell Rover's stench in death. Call the surgeon! Fetch the priest, Unless a mile away. At least.
What do they put in that dried stuff Which makes my Mutt's butt smell so rough? Dead rats and Brussels? What makes shite With destructive force of dynamite?
I spoke to Rover in sternest tones: 'Please sort this out or there's no bones!' He sneered and said: 'can't help my friend. Try talking to the other end.'
The Bow-wow Movement • Opuss № I