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Showing posts from January, 2015

Beau, a poem by Jimmy Stewart

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He never came to me when I would call Unless I had a tennis ball, Or he felt like it, But mostly he didn't come at all.
When he was young He never learned to heel Or sit or stay, He did things his way.
Discipline was not his bag But when you were with him things sure didn’t drag. He’d dig up a rosebush just to spite me, And when I’d grab, he’d turn and bite me.
He bit lots of folks from day to day, The delivery boy was his favorite prey. The gas man wouldn’t read our meter, He said we owned a real man-eater.
He set the house on fire But the story’s long to tell. Suffice it to say that he survived And the house survived as well.
On the evening walks, and Gloria took him, He was always first out the door. The Old One and I brought up the rear Because our bones were sore.
He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on, What a beautiful pair they were! And if it was still light and tourists were out, They created a bit of a stir.
But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks, And with a frown on his f…