Unbelievable hand that gives my soul
this gentle bit of slack during our stroll:
Will you release me, grab the ball and throw it?
I’d splash about and fetch it like a poet.
Beloved hand that takes me to the hill
to shed my vanity and train my will:
take pity and allow that other mutt
to come to me this once and smell my butt.
Then take me to your nightly game of chess;
I promise to stay still and nibble less,
and wake up when you’re ready to head home,
and walk right next to you, and let you roam.
Even if hounds smell Death and bark, “The Reaper!”,
I’ll lick you lovingly, my Life, my Keeper.