His name is Mick,
a boy of seven,
He came to me, that long ago
We became good friends
That's not surprising
His faithful nature, not just for show.
As he grew up, he was destructive,
Shoes and doormat, were his foes
Yet, his soulful eyes, looked at me in wonder
íCause that's the way, things with puppies go.
Now his muzzle is already greying
Although his manner, still full of vim,
His appetite is still ferocious,
Yet his body lean and trim.
A big fat rope, knotted tightly
And a ball, firm and hard
Are now his favorite playthings
As he bounces through the yard.
I know one day, we will be parting
It will hurt, like it did before.
And I wish for him to go to heaven,
So I'll see him there, once more.