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.