My friend Mary Ann once had a dog
that wasn't playful at all.
For some reason, all of that changed
when she gave him a ball.

He loved his ball, she used to say,
it never left his side.
When he would play with it all day,
his smile was very wide.

The ball was the dog's pride and joy,
he loved it just so much.
Yet all this love makes a ball ratty,
and breaks it with one touch.

To the trash it soon had to go,
so the dog cried and cried.
When the stinky truck took his ball,
the poor dog nearly died.

He said with a great hurtful moan,
he would not play again.
Yet when Mary Ann gave him a bone,
his weekly cycle again began.