Once, chomping on dogs his dining plan;
Wolfhound was mighty tasty.
But all those canines left him longing
for haute cuisine that’s less furry,
something that he need not cook,
not of the quadruped kind.
He decided that around the swamp he’d look
for something new to dine.

Lunch for an alligator…
seeking some sup
that ain’t from the pound.
Lunch for an alligator…
he’d keep on looking till it was found.

Snacking for an alligator’s
small, walks on legs of four.
For a huge-teeth masticator,
a Pomeranian’s a bore.

Then he saw a pickup truck
on the bank; he didn’t dive
beneath water but made tracks
on a day so sunny—
he saw something alive:
lunch for an alligator,
lying there and napping on the ground.
Lunch for an alligator;
a couple of times he circled round.
Vittles fare, vittles fare! Time had come to dine.
So he prepared.

Lunch for an alligator—
he snuck up and didn’t make a sound.
Hushed was the alligator…
not a sound.
Lunch for an alligator.
Pretty soon he’d be gulping it down.
Snuck up, the alligator.
Jaws were open, but not in a frown

Manners he used were not proper
as he started on the fare.
He was just a hogging gobbler…
at least he spit out the hair.

He displayed a dining fright;
the time for niceties had passed.
It felt so yummy as it went to his tummy.
He bit into the ass.

Lunch for an alligator
was delicious as he gulped it down.
Lunch for an alligator
was a fisherman named Franklin Brown.