Part III: The Hero in Repose
Young with feeble paws and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Mournful tuba in that darkness,
He is lifted up and strengthened.
Listen to this simple story,
Listen to this Song of Griffey!
Follow here the tame beast's rambles
Through cracked pavement streets of city,
Where the lawns with grass blade-mangled
Bear the fruit of Griffey's squattings.
See his droppings now age-whitened,
Like some strange digestive graveyard,
Bits of paper, plastic, fabric
Wretched diet of his choosing.
Griffey has stolen the stocking
From the bin that holds soiled garments,
Leaves its stitchings wrought asunder
Like the Great Bear of the mountains,
Rips foam stuffing from the mattress,
mighty Grendel tearing tendrils.
There he lay asleep and cumbrous
Peasant rests on blankets squalid.
With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who called his terrier Trap the "last and greatest of all the dogs."
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
For fans of meaningless awards, these awards are extra meaningless.
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