“There are, you know, limits, O writer,” said I,
“To how long I’ll stay here to whimper and sigh.
Perhaps it’s the heat that been making me sicken…
But now I’m not well, you should feed me on chicken.”
“Oh Small Dog, you do not seem too ill to me,
You’ve barked at the horses, the birds in the tree,
You’ve warned off the postman delivering bills,
You seem quite alert, given all of your ills.”
“O writer, I think I’ve contracted a bug.
You know I was queasy, was sick on your rug.
I went ‘nil-by-mouth’ for the whole weekend too,
I’m curled up in bed and I’m feeling quite blue.”
“O Small Dog, you do look quite sad, I must say,
Though that didn’t stop the ball coming in play,
Nor did it prevent you from bounding about
Like some rabid canine each time we…
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