I’m sorry to say
Stanley is not soignee
simply put
he is NOT NEAT
from his raggy old nose
to his shaggy old feet
his scragginess complete
his pedigree
higgledy piggledy
fishy as kedgeree
to say he was spiffy
is iffy
his fur a total bust
not at all lustrous
a little disastrous
dainty he ‘aint
breath to make you faint
the yeti end of hirsute
the cussed end of cute
a bark that makes you turn and take another route
speaking man-to-man
he’s hairier than an orangutan
not so much sartorial
as arboreal
is that pictorial
enough?
I’m trying my best
to describe his mess
but it’s tough
courage mon brave
le chien n’est pas suave
news just in
the dog is crustier
than a rubbish bin
so in that sense
there’s an argument
to say he is well turned-out
it’s a flagrant
but not particularly fragrant fact
that if you were his stylist you’d be sacked
and if you said he was gorgeous
the lie would be enormous
and legally you’d have to retract
if you said he was spruce
that would be a significant misuse
of the adjective
his anti-natty narrative
scoring nine on the Scruffs Scale of Comparative
(which I can tell you now
if you like
goes from oh my god wow
to oh dear god yikes)
he’s the opposite of opulent
a minging monument
to dirty dogs everywhere
an antihero of personal care
with antigravity hair
in fact it’s insane
how rough he remains
he could run through a black hole and come out the same
a totally scruffy scrapper
saluting the flag at the crapper end of dapper
a freestyling frank zappa
phi beta krappa

but none of this matters

why?

because love means
never having to say you’re sorry
and never having to worry
about how you look
(and as far as THAT goes
he wrote the book)