Good morning Charlie, here's a poem for ya.
We're not the pretty dogs.
The preened, puffed and witty dogs.
We're not the privileged elite.
We are the gritty dogs,
the sewer and the city dogs.
And we roam free on our feet.
We live on scavenging. Sometimes on ravaging,
any cool careless cat we meet.
We're simply managing, a lifestyle, damaging,
we learned at our mother's teat.
With manners, not as mild dogs.
Those soft, entranced, beguiled dogs.
We're not those silent dogs of shame.
We are reviled dogs, not tame or reconciled dogs.
We are the wild dogs of fame.
We are the thunder dogs.
The scourge, pillage and plunder dogs.
We're known as the dogs of war.
We are abundant dogs, no longer redundant dogs.
And no longer the underdogs no more!
We're not the class dogs. We're not the brass dogs.
We're not the pampered effete.
We're not the rich dogs. We are the ditch dogs.
We are the pack in the street.
Some call us, bad dogs.
Still others call us, mad dogs.
We foam at the mouth
at this slur.
Some call us, untrained dogs.
Others, insane dogs,
and risk the just wrath
of the cur.
We're not the pap dogs, the eunuch and the lap dogs.
From the lowest to the top is our creed.
We're not the sterile dogs. We are the virile dogs.
We are the hope of our breed.
For we are the hard dogs, We are the guard dogs.
We are the scarred dogs of war.
We are the crack dogs. We are attack dogs.
And no longer the underdogs no more!
David SmithWhite
