Hair of the Hound

My old dogs are chums,
the best chums of mine;
I have not just one, but of two.

They’re both a kind quite fine I find –
at my age, good friends are few.

We’re walking the block,
our diurnal walk,
down a street
that all call Calhoon,

when all of a sudden,
from a house where well hidden,
runs a dog, like a bolt, from the blue.

He’s running right towards us!
He’s gunning straight for us!
he’s coming so fast –

And not far behind,
comes a co-ed who chimes,
Come back!
Heel To!”

But nothing deters
the red hound of mix,
and the co-ed,
she runs from the rear.

Well I, with my pack,
we stop in our tracks;
there’s only just one thing to do.

I have a few tricks,
from my bag, I can pick;
but one is what I know to do.

It might work or not,
but we’re short on our luck,
and I’ve got to try something,

So I yell at the dog,
to halt and resist.
At the same time,
I throw in a growl.

The dog, filled in fear,
he does now desist –
it halts
on the spot
from my howl.

The co-ed starts freaking,
stammers when speaking,
mumbles and stumbles back home.

Her red hound in hand,
she grumbles commands,
while whining and crying,
and moans:

“I don’t want him to Die!”
“I don’t want him Killed!”

I apologized ahead,
and said:

“It’s only one trick,
a deceit, that I know,
that will stop
the wild hound
on the go:

To let out a yell
and act like the Troll,
but in truth
if it will,
I don’t know.”

The co-ed just cries,
and only replies:

“Fuck You! You Son-of-a-Bitch!”
“Go to Hell!”

Well, well! young Co-ed,
mouth full of Spite!

Which could be worse,
your curse or your bark?

The latter,
has a mighty big bite!

©Marvin Loyd Welborn, 2013
Revised 7 August 2013. Revised 30 August 2016


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