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Scrappy

11 Mar

It stares at me with its sad-dog eyes.
Breathing on me. My frown defies.
What a moving look it has to beg
for a bone or a leg.

Feeding time is drawing nigh,
it’ll have its feasting day
I gave it some scraps already
but wants more to bury.

The remainder shall be given later
but not while I’m still able,
until I’m all played out,
I will flick it on the snout.

© Limericist 2008

 
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Posted by on March 11, 2021 in Poetry

 

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