I have written this for a lady whom I only know as Marmot Mom. She lives in what she describes as one of America's outer islands, which I find intriguing. Anyway, in my early forays into Blogging (and, even now, I've been at it only a few weeks) I read her account of her puppy and asked her if I could 'versify' it. This is the result. I love being 'commissioned' for poems.
WHITE SOCKS
(for Marmot Mom)
His outside self was very small, puppy-sized, no less.
But inside he was mountain-large, and we didn't even guess.
We fed him little scraps of food in a dainty plastic dish.
We held him gently in our hands, docile as one could wish.
But Rosco fooled the lot of us; we very quickly gleaned
That Rosco was a force of nature: Rosco was a fiend,
He chewed the chairs, he chewed the robes, he chewed the onions too!
He even chewed the flipflops and the laces from each shoe!
He piddled in the corners, he piddled on the mat,
And he never seemed to hear us shouting 'Stop it Rosco! Scat!'
But we discovered something that he loved all else above
And it wasn't Mother Marmot and it wasn't Mother Love.
He found White Socks enthralling, they thrilled him to excess,
He yipped and yipped on seeing them as part of someone's dress.
He paid no heed to feet inside, he merely grabbed and chewed,
He jumped and yapped around them in a quite obsessive mood.
When he saw a foot in white socks he'd forget he was a dog,
And he'd leap up high, extended, like some strange demented frog!
In the end we changed to grey socks, blue socks, yellow socks and red,
And we hid all white ones right away on the topmost shelf instead.
But now we're feeling rather sad for Rosco's growing up.
No longer does he chew white socks as he did when just a pup.
We wear white socks at any time and noone turns a hair
For Rosco doesn't even see, or he doesn't even care.
But, somehow, something's missing, now he's learning to obey.
For puppy antics please us all. They're a very small price to pay
WHITE SOCKS
(for Marmot Mom)
His outside self was very small, puppy-sized, no less.
But inside he was mountain-large, and we didn't even guess.
We fed him little scraps of food in a dainty plastic dish.
We held him gently in our hands, docile as one could wish.
But Rosco fooled the lot of us; we very quickly gleaned
That Rosco was a force of nature: Rosco was a fiend,
He chewed the chairs, he chewed the robes, he chewed the onions too!
He even chewed the flipflops and the laces from each shoe!
He piddled in the corners, he piddled on the mat,
And he never seemed to hear us shouting 'Stop it Rosco! Scat!'
But we discovered something that he loved all else above
And it wasn't Mother Marmot and it wasn't Mother Love.
He found White Socks enthralling, they thrilled him to excess,
He yipped and yipped on seeing them as part of someone's dress.
He paid no heed to feet inside, he merely grabbed and chewed,
He jumped and yapped around them in a quite obsessive mood.
When he saw a foot in white socks he'd forget he was a dog,
And he'd leap up high, extended, like some strange demented frog!
In the end we changed to grey socks, blue socks, yellow socks and red,
And we hid all white ones right away on the topmost shelf instead.
But now we're feeling rather sad for Rosco's growing up.
No longer does he chew white socks as he did when just a pup.
We wear white socks at any time and noone turns a hair
For Rosco doesn't even see, or he doesn't even care.
But, somehow, something's missing, now he's learning to obey.
For puppy antics please us all. They're a very small price to pay
5 comments:
I have just come to visit you from David Mcmahon's place! He is away at the moment but all you do is leave a verse each day on his page. (Verse or Worse!) it is there every day! I love your blog and have bookmarked it!
Hello, thanks for your visit to France! We have visited Australia twice, to Sydney where my son and family live. What an amazing country!
How wonderful!!!!! To think Rosco has been immortalized at the tender age of 3+ months! We will be framing this and putting it in our home. Thank you for your kindness!
With much affection,
Margot Troolines (MarmotMom!)
I came to your blog from a comment you left on mine. I love it and shall be adding a link.
Rosco.. the cute little brat?
and the previous poem (no.50) on the Grandson... In their growing years all are so alike?
I think if someone compares Brenda, then and now... they'd probably say.. she's now NAUGHTIER than when she was - a kid :)))))
(just pulling your leg..!!)
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