Oh, I know what you’re thinking
That was eons ago and a myth at that
But let your fancy stray a bit
And he’s still there, this time
Serving time in a postcard-sized yard
And chained to a post just outside
The entrance to his derelict doghouse,
Barking what sounds like
All his three heads off
Day and night and fated to
Never leave his post, not even
To stretch his cramped muscles
Or take a well-deserved doggy dump
Or piss somewhere save right
By his stinking house, all the while
Giving us the grotesque but not so
Far-fetched impression he’s not
Guarding the premises after all,
Just making sure the subhuman
Residents of this pit of a hellhole stay
Put forever there.
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