I cannot help but love the way you run,
Knowing that you're growing weak and needs must.
You change your tune declaring that your done,
There'll be no more cross hatching, sucking dust.
No more negotiating wooden legs,
No more turning round in awkward places,
No more eating up the ash or spilt dregs
Of cocoa dried on carpet, no traces
Of the dog which have not been already
Rolled upon, will be visited again.
It's time to recharge, so you keep a steady
Course across the floor, almost trotting, then
Reverse your curved black arse, slowly nudging,
Back to base, tired from your day of drudging.
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