100...99...98...off to the land of...

Wynken Blynken and Nod???
(ah...oh methinks this pissant pooch woof lee
barked up the wrong tree –
reed don my mongrel friend)

 

This poetic endeavor doth not boast nor brag

to take digs on front page

headline grabbing news, nonetheless dag

nab bit significant dysfunction prevails

when bodily energy

does shutterfly like a black flag

without rapid eye movement,

this lix spittle chap

feels like an old hag

whereat every friggin bone (er)

in this straggly, mangy, and creaky ship

of state feels like jag

head shards piercing thine flesh

with pronounced jet lag

and reacts with

the slightest provocation

like a curmudgeonly

cranky compromised nag,

yet, this muttering mouth foaming

flea bitten doggone chow barker

bows down in (toto) obeisance

(like an obedient Dachshund)

tail wagging, trump petting,

 

and snout sniffing out provenance

on par with the smell of new sofa despite

fur vent angry ma

stiff masta paws zing

aghast at dog eared, glom haired,

and icky stained new furniture,

how petty, versus slumber

lest awakening the Cerberus within,

hence faux long enough

 

to excel as the top notch mix breed

boxer golden retriever terrier

male delivery postbag

(as taught at canine obedient school)

upon spilling contents,

the bulk of printed material

detailing importance,

sans letting sleeping

Canis lupus familiaris lye undisturbed,

especially after a bath

when pooch resembles

a limp dish rag

all apropos hot (gravy trained) relevant

topics for instance,

when feeling sleep deprived

detailing how to shepherd

and summon the snoop doggy dog

inchoate hounding gnarly

Marley elusive dream

fostering feigning fearsome nightmare

asper getting lost without a name tag.