I’m only just a common racing dog,
Simple in habit, and my diet’s plain.
I have never had a longing for the grog
That some men seem to need, more vim to gain.
And I have heard it said of such a one,
Who in his swilling emulates the hogs:
‘He’s boozing day and night: he’s getting done.
Poor man,’ they say: ‘he’s going to the dogs.’
But now ’tis threatened that a dog should win
A newer culture and a swifter pace
By taking to the whisky and the gin,
That he may wax more reckless in the race.
And we, who hitherto have been content
With just a lap of water and a rub,
Will soon enough contract that human bent
Of knocking off and going to the pub.
And then, who knows? Some badly balanced pup,
Weak-willed, and too intent on hectic joys,
Will learn too soon the way to liquor up
And have a jolly evening with the boys.
And we shall say of such a one, in blame:
‘It’s quite all right to have one new and then;
But he has overdone this drinkning game.
Poor dog,’ we’ll say: ‘He’s going to the men.’