If—Doggerel
By Junkyard Kipling
by Jon Sindell
If you can sheathe
your fangs when that tiresome old human,
“Grandma,”
is losing hers, and blaming
her horrid life-choices on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men
doubt there is food beneath the seat
cushion,
But make allowance for
their pathetic sense of smell;
If you can wait three extra hours for
dinner while Genius Boy tries for the
thirtieth time to level up in Minecraft,
and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about by
Genius, who tells his mother it was you
who ate the leftover roast, and don’t
pee on that loser’s legs,
Or being hated by the cat, not nudge the
door open so that "Scrumpschelicious
The Magnificent" can finally meet
the neighborhood coyote,
And don’t wear pink
ribbons like that pseudo-dog Crumpet in
the neighbor-lady’s purse, nor bark
on command for a tasteless generic bikkie
because The Queen is too cheap to buy the
good stuff:
If you can dream of toasted-squirrel
kebabs—and not drool on your master;
If you can think of making
sweet, sweet love to His Highness’s
plush pillow—and not give in to
shame;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster,
The stuck-up show dogs,
And growl at those two
impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve
spoken—that the cat’s a
brainless, sneaking brat—
twisted by knaves—“She’s
much too smart to beg for food!”—to
make a trap for fools,
Or watch the toys you found at the park
broken by Genius Boy
And stoop and play with
that loser, who drools:
If you can make one heap of your treats
And risk it all in one
daring effort to snatch the hamburger
from the kitchen counter when no one is
looking,
And get caught, and eat your crummy store-brand
“food” while Genius eats
And never drool at the
smell of what's cooking;
If you can force your heart and nerve and
sinew
To serve your turn long
after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in
you
Except the Will which says
to them: ‘There’s a squirrel!
Run!’
If you can bark with mongrels and keep
your virtue,
Or walk with the pedigreed—nor
lose the common touch,
If neither subhuman vets nor clumsy
humans who step on paws can hurt you,
If all men with cheese or
beef chunks count with you, but none too
much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’
worth of distance run,
Yours is the House and everything that’s
in it,
And—which is more—you’ll
be a Dog, my son! |
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