by Nick Gisburne
Dejected, lonely, Rover waits again,
Abandoned by the nourisher, the king,
That powerful, most marvellous of men,
Of which his daylight dreams forever sing.
The liquid of the sacred silver bowl
Recedes, depleted, dangerously low,
But nothing now contaminates his soul.
Was Rover ever truly naughty? No.
He works so hard for every piece of praise,
Believing that the long, relentless slog
Will ultimately fill his lazy days
With all the manic madness of a dog.
The key, at last, unlocks the magic door.
He runs to pin his keeper to the floor.
