That old white dog keeps comin’ around
with his fur moldy beige & his tail on the ground.

His eyes muddy red, his gait shaggy & slow,
smellin’ like old newspapers dragged through the snow.

With his voice real hoarse & his bark real mean
most inconsiderate bastard that’s ever been seen.

Never asks for permission or considers your time
moves in your bedroom — don’t pay a damn dime.

He’ll pass gas on your pillow & pee in your shoe
and that’s just the start of the things he will do.

He leaves fleas in the bathtub and hair on the soap
his bed’s unmade — he has snot in his throat.

He pays no rent and he sleeps all day
so you try to sneak by him to go on your way
he rolls over, farts, opens one eye to see,
and gives you a look that says “really? you tried me?”.

Shoos you in the kitchen to get him a snack
and whatever you bring he just sends you right back.

As you fill his slack belly you pass by a glass
and begin to feel bad ‘bout the shape of your — ask
him no questions — he only tells lies
and he’s only happy the harder you cry.

He’ll yodel long stories about times that you failed
and remind you of times when your heart was impaled
bewailed, derailed, jailed, assailed
then wrap up by offering you a cocktail.

He’ll howl that he is your only real friend
growl you’d be wasting your time in the gym
warn you that chances in your life are slim
make you drink by yourself using damn pseudonyms

like desperate, and saggy, and old and morose
these are only a few of the names that the oaf
has you calling yourself by the end of the day
life becomes a cliche, fed by his foul play, as your well-being sinks like an ego souffle.

He won’t leave your side — sits right by your feet
his smoker’s breath moldy and fowl like old meat.
He bleats and excretes the smell of defeat
and you can’t quell that smell so you’re stuck on repeat.

Flagellating yourself in attempts to atone
as your heart grows tired of your pendulous bones
kept in a closet that shudders and groans
in a monochrome biome that’s never shalom.

Settles old fishy grease haunches right on your chest
when your attempts to breathe are shallow at best
wearing down your defenses assuring you — yes
he’ll ease on down the road if you’ll just take a rest.

Just take a moment to shutter your eyes
listen to rank, snortled, fowl lullabies
that he sighs, and he cries, as he lies, and he tries
to get you to say all your final goodbyes.

And if you let him pick up the damn microphone
he’ll have the last word and then leave you alone
grinning around the remains of your bones
as he carries them off to the next sucker’s home.

Teacher, reader, writer, eater.