Slavering antagonist of girls
who, once brought back for coffee, saw their chance
to vamp his master with a toss of curls
and whirl my innocence through Love’s sweet dance:
a jealous prude defending my virginity,
a Cerberus before the gates of Sex,
Patch viewed with lack of equanimity
my would-be mistresses and one fiancée (ex).
With best-intentioned loyalty, by dint
of foam-flecked teeth and growling disapproval,
he’d swiftly put an end to any hint
of anything involving clothes' removal.
Until a girlfriend’s far less prudish mastiff
thought he’d make a tasty appetiser;
since when my garden bears a ghostly whiff
of Patch, still working for my good – as fertilizer.