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CAVE CANEM.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

A SWEET little terrier pup

Of the Taurus persuasion was mine;

His tail had been shed,

And was stumpy and red,

But what there was of it was fine.

His eyes were of heaven's own blue

(A little bloodshot, it is true),

His nose altogether askew,

And his paws looked as if he'd been through

A season's hard play on the nine;

And yet,

You bet,

He was a good deal of a dog.

He'd make a game fight with a hen;

He'd sit on his haunches erect;

When seized by the tail,

And used like a flail,

He never was known to object;

He soon condescended to share

My weakness for choc'late eclair;

He'd hang with the strength of despair

To a dish-towel held in the air

As long as you chose to direct;

And so,

You know,

I was pretty blamed proud of the dog.

He chewed up my sofa for good,

He mangled my opera boots;

The money he cost

To recover when lost

Would ruin an Astor or Coutts;

His knowledge of ethics was dim;

The goody tried fooling with him, -

He fastened his teeth with a vim

In what she describes as her "limb";

She threatens to institute "shoots,"

Until

I kill

"That murdherous baste uv a dog."

The Proctor don't like him at all,

Nor the Freshman just over the way;

He's losing his wits

And has spasms and fits, -

At least half a dozen a day.

I think I shall take him, some night,

And chain him exceedingly tight

To a tree, while at "level" and "sight"

I practise on him, as I might

For the rifle-corps' medal, in May.

I'm not

A shot,

But I hope to demolish the dog.

C. A. M.

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