by Ted Hughes
Asleep he wheezes at his ease.
He only wakes to scratch his fleas.
He hogs the fire, he bakes his head
As if it were a loaf of bread.
He's just a sack of snoring dog.
You can lug him like a log.
You can roll him with your foot.
He'll stay snoring where he's put.
Take him out for exercise.
He'll roll in cowclap up to his eyes.
He will not race, he will not romp.
He saves his strength for gobble and chomp.
He'll work as hard as you could wish
Emptying the dinner dish.
Then flops flat and digs down deep
Like a miner, into sleep.
For my dearest and saddest friend whose darling Ben dog died on Friday.