The Power Of The Dog
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion an worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Never the less it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which nature permits
Are closing in asthma or tumor or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it's your own affair—
But.... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone-— where ever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way
When it comes to burying Christian clay,
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept ‘em, the more we do grieve.
For when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
Here's another poem, from a dog's point of view, by G.K. Chesterton.
The Song of Quoodle
a poem by G.K.Chesterton
They haven't got no noses,
The fallen sons of Eve;
Even the smell of roses
Is not what they supposes;
But more than mind discloses
And more than men believe.
They haven't got no noses,
They cannot even tell
When door and darkness closes
The park a Jew encloses,
Where even the law of Moses
Will let you steal a smell.
The brilliant smell of water,
The brave smell of a stone,
The smell of dew and thunder,
The old bones buried under,
Are things in which they blunder
And err, if left alone.
The wind from winter forests,
The scent of scentless flowers,
The breath of brides' adorning,
The smell of snare and warning,
The smell of Sunday morning,
God gave to us for ours
* * *
And Quoodle here discloses
All things that Quoodle can,
They haven't got no noses,
They haven't got no noses,
And goodness only knowses
The Noselessness of Man.
Cheers!
Come read post #18 and tell me your screen doesn’t get blurry.