After the sprouts and Christmas
Pudding, the air is much purer outside,
than within four walls of festiveness
where questions with the eyes are
focused on the dog when really dogs
don’t mind at all, and never know the
meaning of our human words when
flopped against the wall, just cleansing
their anatomy with such dexterity it
beggars our humanoid belief. Let it all
go free – it’s all the same to me, a mere
Hooch who doesn’t mind the blame – I’m
far too busy watching flames atop the
Christmas pud – which actually looks quite
good, old Fido thinks, and cannot wait to
sink his teeth into those remnant parts.
Parts, parts, parts. What rhymes with
words as highly sophisticated as that?
Old Fido thinks he’ll shoo away the cat
before it gnaws upon a tempting meaty leg.