My pupper isn’t well.

When the balls roll, he does not chase.

Kibble fills his bowl for days

unspoilt. He sleeps between moons and I can’t tell


what fever dreams he awakes from

while I am away

throughout the day.

His stately pleasure dome

(that is my home)

slips between his paws like the sand from dunes

he used to frolic and roam

to the beat of his own drum.


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His low-set eyes bear witness

to little Lubomyr Melnyk banging away at Flight of the Bumblebee

and aside that grand piano, a dachshund like him.

With flashing eyes, and floating ears,

shouting beware! Beware!


Despite this, mine’s eyes were already closed with dread,

as I fed what dew

I was prescribed too,

as we both drunk the milk of paradise.


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