Upon the Subject of Eightball, Who Barks with Little Reason

One lone attacker,
What an army doth he face!
Yet he is no whining slacker --
He would die ere know disgrace!

Gone the friendly tongue and wagging
Tail that meets the visitor,
No more sweetness! No more lagging!
He is called to go to war!

To the battlefront he hastens,
Barking with a mighty lung,
Filling those two mighty basins
With the fervor of the young.

What his weapons in this battle?
What the instrument to use?
What will make the foe skedaddle
When and where and how he choose?

‘Tis his BARK! That mighty bugle
Racing from his deepest source,
‘Tis no puppy dog from google,
‘Tis a COW, a WOLF, a HORSE!

And I watch in anxious measure
As the foe is drawing nigh,
Now they seem to be at leisure --
Soon, I know, they’ll want to fly.

And he’s off! The noble warrior
To defend his home and kin --
And he wouldn’t be the sorrier
If he made a greater din!

Thus ‘tis to his great confusion
That the kin yell from on high,
“Hush, you mutt!” And disillusion
Fills his tearful puppy eye.

All that thought of war’s enthusion
Really drained him of his steam,
It was all a grand illusion
And the predators a dream.

~