I start to frown, looked for “ole” pal Fido,
my sweet comfort, then I sense despair.
I cannot find,
no place, the little fellow.
This is strange—he’s always there.

Ole blue did go, quite high in years.
Mello pooch—shame he died.
Bid for and got the little guy
who ain’t now in or outside.

Grief, I’m
whelpless, whelpless, whelpless.
Raise my voice; he’ll hear my yowl?
Afraid he’s lost,
hightailed it out the door.
Nailed by a bear on the prowl!

Loose pooch did go, that is my fear—
fellow’s doomed, I decide.
Bid “adieu,” get another guy. . .
becomes roadkill,
so he’s fried.

Eat, I’m
whelpless, but not belchless. . . .