War Dogs of the World War
Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
| Author: | John I. Anderson | ISBN: | 9781465611673 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria | Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | John I. Anderson |
| ISBN: | 9781465611673 |
| Publisher: | Library of Alexandria |
| Publication: | March 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
I have no dog, but it must be Somewhere there’s one belongs to me— A little chap with wagging tail, And dark brown eyes that never quail, But look you through, and through, and through, With love unspeakable, but true. Somewhere it must be, I opine, There is a little dog of mine With cold black nose that sniffs around In search of what things may be found In pocket or some nook hard by, Where I have hid them from his eye. Somewhere my doggie pulls and tugs The fringes of rebellious rugs, Or with the mischief of the pup Chews all my shoes and slippers up, And when he’s done it to the core, With eyes all eager pleads for more. Somewhere upon his hinder legs, My little doggie sits and begs, And in a wistful minor tone Pleads for the pleasures of the bone— I pray it be his owner’s whim To yield and grant the same to him! Somewhere a little dog doth wait, It may be by some garden gate, With eyes alert, and tail attent— You know the kind of tail that’s meant— With stores of yelps of glad delight To bid me welcome home at night.
I have no dog, but it must be Somewhere there’s one belongs to me— A little chap with wagging tail, And dark brown eyes that never quail, But look you through, and through, and through, With love unspeakable, but true. Somewhere it must be, I opine, There is a little dog of mine With cold black nose that sniffs around In search of what things may be found In pocket or some nook hard by, Where I have hid them from his eye. Somewhere my doggie pulls and tugs The fringes of rebellious rugs, Or with the mischief of the pup Chews all my shoes and slippers up, And when he’s done it to the core, With eyes all eager pleads for more. Somewhere upon his hinder legs, My little doggie sits and begs, And in a wistful minor tone Pleads for the pleasures of the bone— I pray it be his owner’s whim To yield and grant the same to him! Somewhere a little dog doth wait, It may be by some garden gate, With eyes alert, and tail attent— You know the kind of tail that’s meant— With stores of yelps of glad delight To bid me welcome home at night.
