(with sincere apologies to Wm. Blake)

Lurcher, Lurcher, burning bright,
In the living room tonight:
What immortal hand or eye
Will fling the nearest window wide?

On what polluted rugs or sofas
Burns the fury of thine odours?
On what lap dare he aspire
To lift his tail and ease the fire?

And what mouldiness, & how tart
From the twisted sinews of thy arse
And when thy guts begin to heat
What dread sound? & what dread squeak?

What the clamour? what the screams,
In what furious, faecal dream?
What fresh hell? What dread gasp
When supine canines spritz their arse?

When the stars threw down their treats
And walked the earth’s first lurcher sweet:
Did God smile his work to see?
Did He who made The Nose make thee?

Lurcher, Lurcher, burning bright,
In the living room tonight:
What immortal hand or eye
Will fling the nearest window wide?