The Pessimist
His body bulged with puppies—little eyes
Peeped out of every pocket black and bright,
And with an innocent round-eyed surprise
He watched the glittering traffic of the night.
What this world's coming to I cannot tell,
He muttered, as I passed him, with a whine—
Things surely must be making slap for hell,
When no one wants these little dogs of mine.
Peeped out of every pocket black and bright,
And with an innocent round-eyed surprise
He watched the glittering traffic of the night.
What this world's coming to I cannot tell,
He muttered, as I passed him, with a whine—
Things surely must be making slap for hell,
When no one wants these little dogs of mine.
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