HE'S A LITTLE DOG, with a stubby tail, and a mother-eaten coat of tan, And his legs are short, of the wabbly sort; I doubt if they ever ran; And he howls at night, while in broad daylight he sleeps like a bloom-in' log, And he likes the food of the gutter breed; he's a most irregular dog. I call him Bum, and in total sum he's all that his name implies, For he's just a tramp with a highway stamp that culture cannot disguise; And his friends, I've found, in the streets abound, be they urchins or dogs or men; Yet he sticks to me with a fiendish glee. It is truly beyond my ken. I talk to him when I'm lonesome-like, and I'm sure that he understands When he looks at me so attentively and gently licks my hands; Then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say nought thereat, For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JULY IN GEORGY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON OLD TRAILS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |