you always know when it’s eight o’clock
because Stanley paces around a lot
testing your patience to the max
roaming the kitchen playing his sax
blowing with such a jazzy wheeze
howls n’trills in minor keys
toots n’squeals
whatever he feels
till you cry to heaven and serve his meals

you always know when it’s six o’clock
because Stanley stares like a dog in shock
hoping you’ll find his vacant expression
a picture of such deep depression
you’ll want to drag him from the brink
and send him to a canine shrink
for a course of therapy
(or the cheaper remedy:
an early serving of his favourite recipe)