The Bulldog's still an inspiration to write about, just sorry I see so little of her now.
In late on a late night from a long journey,
Barely in the door
And she's telling funny stories
Of her own misfortunes
The comedy of errors that harried her homewards.
The young woman who will always be our child
Has the lot of us laughing
When we should all be asleep
At things that would've driven others
To fury or despair;
But those have no hold on her,
Because bulldogs don't give up -
They just hold on.
So now she's holding on again -
A new grownup
In a too grownup world.
Now the lessons come of living.
- But that's all right,
Because biting down and holding fast
Is what she does,
And she's gonna chew this bone too,
The tough white bone of adulthood,
Down to a pile of disregardable dust
And make it all her own
The while she works it.