He's a little dog with a stubby tail,
And a moth eaten coat of tan.
And his legs are short, of the wobbly sort;
I doubt if they ever ran;
And he howls at night, while in broad daylight
He sleeps like a bloomin' log,
And he likes the food of the gutter breed;
He's a most irregular dog.
I call him Bum, and in total sum
He's all that his name implies,
For he's just a tramp with a highway stamp
That culture cannot disguise;
And his friends, I've found, in the streets abound,
Be they urchins or dogs or men;
Yet he sticks to me with fiendish glee;
It is truly beyond my ken.
I talk to him when I am lonesome - like,
And I'm sure he understands
When he looks at me so attentively
And gently licks my hands;
Then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes,
But I never say naught there at,
For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes,
But never a friend like that!
By W. Dayton Wedgefarth