The dachshund yaps from his back yard till I’m past,
then a few valedictory epithets (convinced
of the power of his curse, unequivocal as Pan’s,
before which hardened veterans pissed on their greaves),
whereas these curs without a country, these trespassers
in no-dog’s-land have come to sniff the runes
on the ivy leaves. Here comes one now—
a shepherd bitch with a yellow Frisbee in her teeth.
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