The Hair of the Hound

My dogs are my chums,
the best chums of mine –
I haven’t just one,
but two.

They’re both of a kind
really quite fine –
At my age,
good friends are few.

We’re walking the block,
a diurnal walk,
Down a street,
a street called Calhoon;

When all of a sudden!
out of the house,
A house on Calhoon
that is hidden,

Out runs a dog,
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
this red hound of curs,
And the co-ed,
runs up behind.

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

Now, I have some tricks,
from a bag, I can pick;
But this one, from the some,
I must do.

I yell at the dog,
to halt and desist –
As well as throw in
a growl.

The dog, filled in fear,
comes to a rest –
He halts at the spot
of the howl.

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

Her red hound in hand,
she grumbles commands;
Whining and crying,
she moans:

“I don’t want him to Die!”

“I don’t want him Killed!”

I said I was sorry,
to try not to worry,

“There’s only one trick
I know of to pick,
That stops a wild hound
that I know:

To let out a yell,
scream bloody hell;
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 bite?

©Marvin Loyd Welborn, 2013
Revised 7 August 2013. Revised 25 October 2016
Poem’s Score: -0.2

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