My heart wakes to a nauseating sound:
My eyes as though from some shock electric
Reacting cannot but stare at him in front
Crouching, Oh it’s my hound Patrick;
‘Tis not like tabbycat with his mice
A share from spoils of his field chase
He lays at my feet,- Patrick has his way
To bulldoze my reverie and get away;
Why fawning tongue work all over me
As though its glad oil has charm
O’er the most supine master into alacrity?
What freezes my blood is sepsis, its harm
Shall outpace your fidelity, Patrick
I shall throw this ball and wish it gone
And chasing it to hell that is a trick
I wish you had taken up-Begone!