Doggone, yeah.

That's no moue, sick Rover,
Fur looks moussed, slicked Rover. Whoa!
You've bad-mood tics, Rover.

Turns out, he'll bite,
Turns out, he'll bite,
Turns 'round and bites.

You've got moose ticks, Rover,
Bent, I muse, sick Rover
Deathly muse, sick Rover.
Turns out, he'll bite,
Turgid foam's white
Terminal sight?

He can move quick; he's a spectral fiend;
Damned the cries my "best friend"'s keened.
Moue nix; he's like Old Nick, spleened,
As if not weaned,
With teeth not cleaned
And sheened: froth-gleamed.

Ghastly the incisions from his mastication.
Check his credentials for a vaccination.
Meanwhile, he rends my hide.

His taste of my midriff won't stop;
This cur'll rip my shinbone with chops.
He's feasting then
On my backside.
"Crazy is he!"
I cried.

I'm scored; 'nines sink
Into me, dig deep.
I box his ear,
I toxin fear.
Blood streams from my butchered thigh.

Rump snack's tasty. . .
Snacking on my arms.
They must be wired, 'cause they're hangin' down--
Hoped-for rebound as they head for the ground.

I hear a very dental sound.
My right ear is very marred;
Next sweet sop is my left ear.
Lunch today, brunch today.

This is no fun; I've no mirth.
This is no fun; this dog's sinister.
Ravage and plunder and rip cur; minister
To my sliced hide's what' required from a doc.
Tied with tourniquets, I'd cease to frown.

I hear a dermis-wrenching sound,
Though my ear's down on the ground.
I'm for this cur not a thing but
I'm for this cur not a thing but
Chow-Chow
Choooooooooooooooooooow!

Persian fights gave
Me delight. Rave:

"Save ass,
Fearless
Felis!"

So she who mews sics Rover;
She who mews sics Rover, yeah!
(Dead, he's mute, sick Rover.)
Turns on him--fights,
Turns on him--bites,
Turns out his lights.

She who mews sics on this spectral fiend. . .
Rabid, thus ire, I have gleaned.
Moot's sick lip-drip bone-feed fiend.
My wounds are cleaned,
I've been vaccined,
Not morphine-weaned,
"Doggone!" I keened.