Bulldog Poems

My Dog, Pig

My Dog, Pig, 
was a British Bull
A heavy but steady
scary looking fool

She would stand like a statue 
Perfectly hilarious
And balance on things we thought precarious

She faced every day with vigour,
This rumbling tumbling Hog
If there be a stream she could snarfle out
You’d find her amongst the bog

Every call was heeded
By a wide and ludicrous stance,
Oh my sweet little Pig, I'd kill for another chance

She also listened, she knew me well, better than any being
A dog like Pig only comes around once,
The believing is in the seeing


Not an hour goes by I don't ache
And pine for my dog, Pig
Sent by the Gods with a brain a tad small,
But a heart just too big

Super Bulldog Frog

Super bulldog frog had horns that made him dangerous in the Rodeo Sea.
The other cow-frogs jumped around, and let the bulldog frog be. 
He might gore you, and then your innards would be all inside out and red.
Worse yet, he might slice you in half which could make you incredibly dead.

Super bulldog frog had no idea others were fearful of his tiny sharp horns.
Born with them, he knew their consistency was the same as kernels of corns.
They would not hurt anyone he told cow-poke frogs, but they ran anyway.
At least this meant he rarely was challenged by the others at the end of a day.

Bulldog Thinks He Is a Lion

I am a lion the bull dog bragged to a friend.
The friend kept his chuckles until the very end.
Thinking he looked ridiculous, because he did.
A lion! Laughed his friend, a cat named Sid.

I will sneak through the jungle the bull dog said.
He was huffing and puffing now, his round face red.
Sid the cat was sneaking up ready to scare him.
Oh my gosh! Yelled the brave lion named Jim.

Are You the Spirit of Halloween

Are you the spirit of Halloween? The wind asked me.
I scoffed and stuttered and laughed and broke free.
Playful Halloween spirit or the more macabre, I wondered.
Night sky lit up with lightning as dark clouds thundered.

My jazzy side found humor in the question of the wind.
I am not a devil, or evil, but how many witches have sinned?
Halloween can be dark or as light and lively as all get out.
I think I could be, I told the nosey wind with a cackle and a shout.

A Sensitive Bulldog

A sensitive bulldog who lives in Marquette
is not one to forgive or forget
Once left all alone
to mope by the phone
He still growls:  Don’t dare call me your pet!

A Greyhound-Bulldog Blend

An athletic greyhound-bulldog blend
is the pride and the joy of South Bend
Fast and vivacious
Strong and tenacious
At Notre Dame he’s playing tight end

New Bulldog On the Block

There was a new bulldog on the block.
His name was Sammy.
He was a rocker. His paws were clammy.

We saw him from a distance
And laughed a little bit.
He was shaking his booty and having a fit.

His music was kosher.
His wiggles were familiar too.
He said, “This is what rock, and rollers do!”

Pretty soon we other dogs were wearing stripes.
We had stopped our grousing, our jealous looks and our gripes.
Now we are in Sammy’s band, having a fine time.
Loving our rock-n-roll life, writing songs that rhyme.

March of the Bulldog

Thirteen times that flag when down
Thirteen times picked from the ground
Thrust aloft by last man standing
With the mortar shells still landing

Wield the colours twenty paces 
Over fallen friendly faces
’til the mortars take a rest
Leaving shrapnel in his chest 

Man and colours, each goes down
To the muddied blooded ground
Laboured is his final breath
Raised the flag with all he’s left

Soon the battle no more loud
Flag of Britain flying proud
All her fallen sprawled around
Oberst doesn’t take it down

Shakes his head, he isn’t grinning
He says, ‘Wir können nicht gewinnen.’


Oberst = Colonel
Wir können nicht gewinnen = We cannot win

October Song

Can you hear the melody the wind breathes
into the branches brown and green and some black
Its like the familiar noise your nose makes
when you have a cold that whistling so faint

The red blue black birds sing along in formation
They are colorful dots in the sky like music notes
that breeze reads and breathes song of life into
The hills have eyes and can read music too
The grass burnt from summer still has dew and weeds

But my favorite is the dance of the leaves floating 
falling to their doom to end up in piles 
The red ones they are like fire dancing salsa
The brown ones do a hip hop bop
The green ones do an Irish jig
The tan ones have native American steps
The amber ones wave like fanning geisha dancing
In death all leaves turn black dancing jazz

Orange cat purrs chasing leaves
He also runs from the boisterous bulldogs song
Nature provides them a natural coat
And when it is time even the deer welcome it.

October song is a beautiful sing a long, join in.


OCTOBER POETRY CONTEST       SPONSOR Regina McIntosh
10/4/2021

Interrogating the Guilty Bulldog

We had him dead to rights, Herman and I.
On his lips was a smear of blueberry pie.
That bulldog is guilty as sin, we both agreed.
Behind his back, while he carefully peed.

Let’s get him to interrogation, Herman said.
He’s the detective, with a bit of hair of red.
I am Sergeant German, being a shepherd and all.
I thought that bulldog might break down and ball.

But no, he was tough, that little pie stealing squirt.
He was arrogant and haughty. He is a piece of dirt.
You are tough now, but you will eventually tell.
That little pug nosed ugly said “You go to hell!”

Detective Herman was mad now, I could see.
He had to run outside; pretending to pee.
I know the truth is that he wanted to cuff 
Bulldog’s fat ears good and hard, no bluff!

This was the third pie that had been stolen this week.
From the window in our police kitchen without a squeak.
We were damned mad about having no pie.
I wanted to poke that bulldog really hard in the eye.

The boss told us finally to let the little weasel go.
It made me really hot, as you probably all know.
The next day we discovered a cat stealing a cherry pie.
So now I am less angry about the bulldog; guess you know why.

Bulldog Mk

Mark nicely protects us all like a guarded bulldog on the prowl.

1/8/2021

Contest: Tease a Friend Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Bobby May

Miss Pelled

To spell wrong, 
should not be a miss.
'Miss' as I miss you
feels wrong,
for wrong spelling.
Miss as in you,
is so deeply heartfelt.

The Bulldog Vs the Kangaroo

Swings and hides in the kangaroo court.
The bulldog drops him with one report.
He struggles and fights to stay on his feet.
His fancy footwork skips every beat.

Bob and weave, stick and move.
He floats like a kangaroo with no groove.
Pathetic and weak and nothing original.
He hides in the bush like an aboriginal.

Come on sparky, show me something new.
Are you tired of the bulldog beating you black and blue?
A kick in the rear is what you need.
Your sorry punches are lacking speed.

You think you’re cool with your big mouth.
True north is where I am.  You’re going south.
You’ve got no power to your punch.
This Bulldog eats Kangaroos for lunch.

The Singing Bulldog

Another minion has entered the field.
The family genius unable to yield.
I guess the peace has now been broke.
The son of satan takes a poke.

More joy doth spread on this fine day.
More fertilizer cast out for the hay.
Like I said it comes ten-fold.
No more warnings you have been told.

The trolling bullies they come once more.
Even more vulgar than before.
I guess we'll see what daylight brings.
The bulldog is loose and now he sings.

The Bulldog Strolls

The fearsome Bulldog strolls 
as a robust reminder
to those exhibiting various traits 
of hooligan grinder.

He keeps a close watch 
for surreptitious acts of malice
from those who sneak a peek 
then retreat to their palace.

Kings and Queens 
who flaunt their gargantuan pride.
Be careful where you trod 
the dog hears every lie.

Blocked by most of the sugar crowd 
with their game.
The level of hypocrisy wielded 
just adds to the shame.

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