My dog is scared of dustpans. It seems wise,
To him, to give the plastic scooper leeway;
It carts up refuse, and its task implies
A dusty fido banished to the freeway
To pooch perdition could be in the cards.
He knows he is a sinner: always eating;
Begrudging us our garbage; gracing yards
With offal only when the floor is fleeting.
To me, his sins are venial, but to him
The dustpan rides a pale horse, and the math
Through Revelations 7:8 is grim:
There's just no room for dogs along the path.
Dog Jesus, keep that broom away -- it sweeps
Beelzebub's designs; it plays for keeps.
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