These are the dog days of summer
and like a dog in a manger I am living a dog's
portion of a dog's life in this dog-eat-dog
town, dogging it in a doggery, a salty
dog in my hand, drinking the hair
of the dog that bit me.
Dog-tired, dog-faced, the dog ends
of my dog days in a dogged heap;
dog-cheap in my dog collared shirt,
my dog Latin would make a damn dog laugh,
or at least a blue dog blush.
Dressed like a dog's dinner, walking
like a dog in shoes while you top dogs
put on the dog, my dog feelings tell me
the smell of the dog is upon me —
I've been given the dog to hold.
An easy thing to find a stick
to beat a dog. But dog on it! This dog's
body is hanging on till the last dog is hung.
And I'll walk the black dog on
till you blow your dogs off.
These are the dog days of summer.
Sirius, the dog star, rises over
this dog's breakfast as if to ask:
Whose dog is dead? Next time,
let's let sleeping dog's lie.