A poem that might have been included in T.S. Eliot’s ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Dogs’
Hieronymus Hound has his nose to the ground
When he’s out on the scent of a trail,
At the hint of a whiff, he’ll snuffle and sniff
With a spirited wag of the tail.
He may appear wrinkled and chronically crinkled
With ears drooping down to his toes,
But what sets him apart, being state of the art,
Is his really remarkable nose.
He’ll sniff out a rat at the drop of a hat
Yet, given the chance, he prefers
To make a quick beeline for any stray feline
No matter how pleading its purrs.
Though he’s easily led when he lowers his head
In pursuit of his nostrils alone,
When it comes to the crunch he’s the pick of the bunch
And a pedigree down to the bone.
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