It's Hard To Keep a Bulldog Down
Old Roxie is dead. She's gone to her bed
Near the drop-off where leaves are decaying.
Yet she rises again from that terrible fen
In a manner grotesque and dismaying.
The grave that we dug, although tidy and snug,
Was too shallow for her to be laying.
So the volatile gas that shot from her ass
(Excuse me for vulgarly saying)
Overexcited, spontaneously ignited
And created a monstrous spraying!
The guts and the hide were strewn far and wide,
Festooning the branches, displaying
Those rotting remains and even the brains
Of her corpse. The crows are buffeting!
There's no consolation for miscalculation,
No comforting words for allaying
Our grief and chagrin for committing the sin
Of the mess for which now we are paying.
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