Woof!

To lie unconscious, conscience right at rest
In snoring warmth, least fit for kings as fools
With winter's anger nullified, behest
Fulfilled by faithful friend's warm growls and drools–
Such bliss. But ware! each pleasure bears a price,
As twitching sleepless dusk to dawn should show–
A time may come when one could pray for lice
To stalk the scourge which flits and hops below
The bedclothes, having skipped its canine host
And sought a warmer clime, a pleasant bed.
Oh parasite! I beg of you, at most
Please take one bite, then get thee from my stead!
    A three dog night of wretched chill may be,
    But better chilled than fodder for a flea.

Jan. '00

---

– home –