I’m glad my dog is but a bitch
And quite a friend of mine,
For I’d be screwed were she to snitch
The things I try to hide.

Were she to tell my mom might faint
From all the things she heard;
She thinks her son to be a saint
I’d hate her vision to be blurred,

By countless bowls which I have smoked
Alone with man’s best friend,
And all the girls that I have stroked:
My “sins” they have no end.

So here’s a poem for my best mate
Though you’d prefer a walk.
I don’t believe in fate per say
but
What great a fate it is
that you will never talk.