|
| |
Doggy Breath
No harbinger of tact was he
And as a matter of fact you'll see
One spewing forth only filth and bile
A mongrel dog with a crooked smile
Nor lover of man or saintly ways
A cur so foul for all of his days
But in the end life doth defeat
Soon the harbinger of death he'll meet
Copyright ©
Randy Freie
|
|