O dog, how poetic art thou?
You may not roar like the king of the jungle,
You might not have the elephant's rumble.
For ages have you been poetically denounced,
Your life, your ways, all famously downed.
Your patchy skin and filthy dwelling,
Those dirty paws and repugnant reeking,
Seems to have disgusted the said 'civilized',
Your worth undermined, your life criticized.
They don't know that beauty lies in attitude,
Your gait is quivery, but mind is shrewd.
O how hath thee come to inspire me,
You, in the true sense are born free.
You have no reputation, let alone a good one,
You lie there, sidelined, ignored, dismal.
But for once in your eyes do I see contentment,
Because you have no dignity, no such mindly bent.
Your ultimate gift is that of survival,
All else just qualifies simply as trivial,
You, my friend, are the best at that,
Leave behind the elephant, and the mighty big cat.
The 'developed', 'advanced' world has you to hate,
Your barks neither thunder nor intimidate.
To many, you may just pass off as a villain,
But to me, my dog, you're the truest bohemian.
