My Dogs My Boss

 Each day when it's anighing three
 Old Dick looks at the clock,
Then proudly brings my stick to me
 To mind me of our walk.

And in his doggy rapture he
 Does everything but talk.


But since I lack his zip and zest
 My old bones often tire;
And so I ventured to suggest
 Today we hug the fire.

But with what wailing he expressed
 The death of his desire!

He gazed at me with eyes of woe
 As if to say: 'Old boy,
You mustn't lose your grip, you know,
 Let us with laughing joy,
On heath and hill six miles or so
 Our legs and lungs employ.
'

And then his bark was stilled to a sigh
 He flopped upon the floor;
But such a soft old mug am I
 I threw awide the door;
So gaily, though the wind was high
 We hiked across the moor.

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