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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
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My Dog's My Boss

Published by Susan on 08/09/2003 (3382 reads)
Each day when it's anighing three...

Each day when it's anighing three
       Old Dick looks at the clock,
Then proudly brings my stick to me
       To mind me of our walk.
And in his doggy rapture he
       Does everything but talk.

But since I lack his zip and zest
       My old bones often tire;
And so I ventured to suggest
       Today we hug the fire.
But with what wailing he expressed
       The death of his desire!

He gazed at me with eyes of woe
       As if to say: 'Old boy,
You mustn't lose your grip, you know,
       Let us with laughing joy,
On heath and hill six miles or so
       Our legs and lungs employ.'

And then his bark was stilled to a sigh
       He flopped upon the floor;
But such a soft old mug am I
       I threw awide the door;
So gaily, though the wind was high
       We hiked across the moor.

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