The Puppy

The Puppy cannot mew or talk,

He has a funny kind of walk,

His tail is difficult to wag

And that’s what makes him walk zigzag.

He is the Kitten of a Dog,

From morn till night he’s all agog—

Forever seeking something new

That’s good but isn’t meant to chew.

He romps about the Tulip bed,

And chews the Flowers white and red,

And when the Gardener comes to see

He’s sure to blame mamma or me.

One game that cannot ever fail

To please him is to chase his tail—

(To catch one’s tail, ’twixt me and you,

Is not an easy thing to do.)

If he has not a pretty face

The Puppy’s heart is in its place.

I’m sorry he must grow into

A Horrid, Noisy Dog, aren’t you?