Paean

My master’s eyes are perfect pools of spoor
Alive and murky brown with flecks of gold;
His feet smell like the rank posterior
Of some good friend, his socks like musty mold.

His morning breath is fragrant as the pail
Fresh-emptied of its treasure on trash day;
I’d rather lick his face than bite the mailman’s leg
Or watch that coward curse and run away.

My master’s voice is sweeter than the song
Of a howling mongrel chorus after dark;
I love to hear him call my name—“Hey, Nimrod!
How about a walk around the park?”

More splendid than a cornered de-clawed cat
Is pissing on the rug of a man like that!