wuthering stanley

Stanley stares at me with a kind of mania
from the patio garden by the potted hydrangea
and the longer it lasts the stranger it gets
is it food he wants or a trip to the vets?

What is it, Stanley? I implore
as he stands like Heathcliffe out on the moor
the wind whipping through his wispy white hair
accentuating the crazy stare

He truly seems a dog possessed
half bewitched, half depressed
haunted by pets from another dimension
dogs beyond my comprehension

And so, in an effort to bring him in,
I clear my throat and start to sing:

Stanley, it’s me, I’m Jimmy
I’ve come home, I’m so cold
let me in your pet flaaaaap

and yep – seems to do the trick
(that, and the wave of another tripe stick)

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