What is “best friend” looking for?
It ain’t a Milk-Bone.
He lurks at edge of the glade
with his stony-tony meat,
very vast, very strong.
He awaits a slut-mutt maid
to groove in a movement canine.
Starting his mutter hew,
he is growing, growing big; beyond “sprig,” it’s now long.
It’s in keeping with a prongy doggy woo.

He expects to soon be astride
a canine, not a sheep.
He did that once but put a check
on charges of Bo Peep.
How reckless! He’ll no more go there.
Agnus deo, adieu!
From now on, he will stay away from farms
and concentrate on the prongy doggy woo.

Not languid, he in shaggy fur; he’s ready to jump
on a hirsute canine maid.
And when she will lope by, his pethard will be hoist high,
both of them to the moon will have bayed…
will be a far cry from whimper time—
barking enthused ensues.
Even the coyotes that cry, by ululations alarmed.
These scourges unnerved by songy doggy woo.