My pom’s fur is nothing like a ripe peach;
Marshmallows are far more soft than his butt
If I be behaved, why then he’s a leach;
If breath be perfumes, eggs reek from his gut.
I have seen dogs, sleeping still as a rock,
But no such calmness see I in his eyes;
And through his face, he can’t keep secrets locked
Unlike criminals who keep pride in lies.
I love to watch him run, yet well I know
That tortoises can crawl quicker than he.
I grant my warmth had nobody to show;
My pom, when he sees me, he lets me be:
And yet, by heaven, I think he still cares,
For me, he growls at, no one can compare.