A dogs’ life would be
good for me;
I wouldn’t worry about
popularity.
I’d lie 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.