100 99 98 Off To the Land Of

Wynken Blynken and Nod??? (ah...oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee barked up the wrong tree – reed don my mongrel friend) This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag to take digs on front page headline grabbing news, nonetheless dag nab bit significant dysfunction prevails when bodily energy does shutterfly like a black flag without rapid eye movement, this lix spittle chap feels like an old hag whereat every friggin bone (er) in this straggly, mangy, and creaky ship of state feels like jag head shards piercing thine flesh with pronounced jet lag and reacts with the slightest provocation like a curmudgeonly cranky compromised nag, yet, this muttering mouth foaming flea bitten doggone chow barker bows down in (toto) obeisance (like an obedient Dachshund) tail wagging, trump petting, and snout sniffing out provenance on par with the smell of new sofa despite fur vent angry ma stiff masta paws zing aghast at dog eared, glom haired, and icky stained new furniture, how petty, versus slumber lest awakening the Cerberus within, hence faux long enough to excel as the top notch mix breed boxer golden retriever terrier male delivery postbag (as taught at canine obedient school) upon spilling contents, the bulk of printed material detailing importance, sans letting sleeping Canis lupus familiaris lye undisturbed, especially after a bath when pooch resembles a limp dish rag all apropos hot (gravy trained) relevant topics for instance, when feeling sleep deprived detailing how to shepherd and summon the snoop doggy dog inchoate hounding gnarly Marley elusive dream fostering feigning fearsome nightmare asper getting lost without a name tag.