‘Twas the night before Little Friday and all through my hut
Dogs and cats were asleep, so I forgot they were nuts
I was working on slide decks, my favorite sad hobby
When, what happened next surely did shock me
I heard a small squeak and thought, no, not a mouse
I jumped up and started peeking all over the house
Then the noise came again with a much greater thrust
And, I gleaned that the sound was from dear RJ’s butt
No corn, no meal, no high-processed food
I thought I was feeding him well and so good
But, woe is the owner who isn’t prepared
For the effluent one little dog’s bowels can air
Tried every food? Well, I did, too.
Sad to say that their promises aren’t true.
Lamb-only food, or a veggie-free diet?
“Why not?”, I thought. Why shouldn’t I try it?
Because none of them work on my stout fart-full dog
I might well be writing my last words on this blog
If tomorrow you write me and get no reply
It’s because RJ farted until I would die
I write this tonight, fearing death on the horizon
‘Cause I just can’t take one more toot in my eye, son
My dreams of a life full of adventure and glee
All swept asunder by my dog’s gaseous spree
First one who gets here can take all the yarn and fabric they want. I fear the end is near. How undignified (and fitting for me, probably) to die from dog gas. I’m going to put on my fanciest outfit tonight before I go to sleep just in case.