Rob

                                                      Rob.

Wriggling,

Squiggling,

Squirmy old hound.

A cold wet nose like a worm,

I’ll be bound

easily lifting a hand or an arm.

Burrowing deep in our hearts with your ways.

Gently grasping our love with your plays.

Black Rob-dog, what wry sense of humour

gave you a soft white clerical collar?

He’s sneaky, he’s crafty, he’s stuffed full of wiles.

Although all that he’s up to, mostly bring smiles.

At nicking the cats food, he’s patience itself.

While you’re on the phone, he’s stuffing himself.

Afraid of a sheep or two? Could be; so what!

At fetching a stick; now that’s where he’s hot.

But give him some ducks and he’ll herd them all day.

And for his pay? all he wants is a roll. Not in hay!

He’s smelly. He’s grotty. A hell of a mess.

But whilst he was ‘round we were, all of us, blessed.

And now that he’s gone, on before, so to speak.

The gap that he’s left in our hearts is so bleak.

Now where he’s at, there are ducks to control.

There! Rob-dog is running. He’s on a great roll!

No more a stiff shuffle, a struggle to run,

He’s speedy and sharp. He’s Rob-dog. The ONE