I watch in dumbstruck reverie
When any dog show's on TV,
And marvel at the grand parade
Of perfect pooches there displayed.
But seeing canines so refined,
A covetousness grips my mind,
And soon I'm breaking out in sweats
To think these dogs could be my pets.
For no one in this sporting group
Would ever foul my rugs with poop.
And if that pug belonged to me,
Then how much sweeter life would be!
He'd calmly greet my guests and friends,
And not uproot my cyclamens,
Consent to being bathed and shorn –
It's like some kind of puppy porn!
So close they are to one's ideal,
It's hard to think of them as real.
I watch the pageant, stupefied,
Till Topaz, lying at my side,
Will worm her head beneath my hand,
As if to say, "I understand.
Who cares if you've got roving eyes?
You're not unlike a lot of guys.
This thing we have is built on trust,
And you won't stray; I've got you sussed.
Go fantasizing all you wish −
But first, about my supper dish . . ."