PATCHWORK CUR:

On stone street corner, cold & alone he sat,

Looking sad & forlorn like an old used mat,

Of stripe, spot, dot, blotch & old matted fur,

Bearing genes of stray, mutt & lowly lost cur.

A little bit black, mud brown & dirty white fluff,

Poor starving little wretch, a proper little scruff,

His long legs gangling & a wee stump for a tail,

One ear pointing up & the other one just trails.

You poor little fellow, mixture of a million hues,

Wandering around dirty streets & old cold mews,

I look deep into your old sad & soft rheumy eye,

And deeply within your soul, I hear your silent sigh.

“Just another one passing by without a care for me”,

With a tired twitch of your tail & silent look of plea,

And so, with a pat, a given name & an offered paw,

I walked you into my home & heart & opened a door.