A dogs’ life would be good for me;
I wouldn’t worry about popularity.
I’d lay on the porch and sleep all day,
then run all around acting silly, curious and gay.
I wouldn’t fret ‘bout putting my foot in my maw,
if I did who would care, I’d be chewing my paw.
I could just roll around carelessly playing in the grass;
staying out of trouble away from the morass.
No phone calls, no emails, no text messages,
no worrying about what the next secret passage is.
I wouldn’t have to worry if my arm pits stank,
nor if my feet smelled yucky or a little bit rank.
No one would be upset if I said something wrong,
or if indeed I was wearing too short a sarong.
My friends would just like me there’d be no façade;
in fact I’d be the one to get them guffawed.
No one would know that I was wicked smart,
the facts that I knew I would never impart.
Yup, to me a dogs’ life surely sounds unproblematic,
wouldn’t have to worry about recognition static.
All of this writing has now made me tired;
I better get back to my job before I get fired.
