For a Brown Dog
And the rusted spade turned in the dark earth
And we committed his body to the dust —
His little brown dog's body
That three minutes before
Had jumped for joy
And emitted joyous barks.
(But you couldn't go out and shoot the motorist
Who had run over him…
Especially when it was a woman
Who had shed appropriate tears!)
Only, you could burn inside with a fierce flame
Because he wouldn't come running to you
Any more
With a grin on his face
And his funny little plume of a tail
Frantic with love!
The rusted spade turned in the dark earth
And something of you went into the ground
With the little brown dog's body!
Right out of Pickwick
Right out of Pickwick! You would have said:
His quaint neat figure
Rotund, but tapered.
His trousers looked to be always peg-top,
Narrowing down to his shining foot gear.
His woollen vests were from far-famed Bond Street,
Checked, and horsey and dear to his heart.
You might have thought him a figure for laughter;
You might have laughed and said "Humpty Dumpty!"
If you hadn't known him, and hadn't loved him
He was Uncle Reg to the young and the old —
He was Uncle Reg and his heart was gold…
He'd been a Banker for many years
And then he'd retired, to the laughter and tears
Of nursing his mother… delicate… old…
But precious to him. She thought him a bold
Brave knight, who chose to stay at her side.
You hardly saw him, when she first died!
When Kathie, his niece, married the mayor —
A tall young Scotsman with sandy hair —
In his high silk hat, that sat "just so",
Old Uncle Reg was a regular Beau.
His cravat was faultess, his dignity sweet…
From his topper top, to his gleaming feet! …
On birthdays, in fine Spencerian hand
A letter would come. The words were grand
And the style heroic. In dark green ink
Uncle Reg would say, "I think
You the fairest lady this side of the sea
Who wears her birthdays with gaiety.
You have my wishes for scores and scores."
And the letters were signed "Admiringly, Yours."