(with apologies to Shakespeare)
My mistress does not take me for a run
as often as I’d like; nor does she get
that rolling in revolting stuff is fun
and that I don’t mind reeking when I’m wet;
She looks at me but cannot comprehend
the deepness of my eagerness to please;
although, in truth, my wagging can depend
on promises she makes involving cheese.
Sometimes I feel like all I do is wait
and wait and wait and wait and wait—until
I hear my name! and gallop towards what fate
awaits me, I know not, yet hearken still.
Hope springs eternal in my canine soul;
A wheel of brie’d fit nicely in my bowl.