Larry’s Lament
February 12th 2012 01:41
Only the toughest guys are immortalised in poetry.
Daisy: What are you looking so self-satisfied about? You look like you’ve been offered a part in a dog food advertisement.
Larry: Better! Aunty Debbie has written a poem about me.
Daisy: Aunty Debbie?
Larry: Little Boss’s sister. I’m going to call her Aunty Debbie from now on. I’m sure she won’t mind. After reading this poem, she clearly understands me better than anyone.
-----------------------------
I’s a tough-guy greyhound by the name of Clint
Named I guess after rough Dirty Harry.
But my image has changed, I’ve taken the hint
And I’m playing the role of laid-back Larry.
I went for a drive, cool dude in a car
Met a black bitch named Daisy (so sweetly)
But this was no play-date, it went far too far
My old boss decamped, took off so discreetly.
Old boss’d told new boss that Clint was my name
New boss insisted on calling me Larry
I tried ignoring both him and his dame
And dreamed of myself as tough Dirty Harry.
Now I’m laid back and letting old bitchy Daisy
Think she’s in charge and better than me
Letting her think that I’m tired and lazy
But one day I’ll show her, one day she’ll see.
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Comment by Heidiclyde
Are you sure your Auntie Debbie really knows you? It seems to me that you dreaming of being as tough as Dirty Harry is as unrealistic as Clyde thinking he is famous just because he writes a weekly column for Greyhound Racing S.A.'s newsletter. They only asked him to write it because they are sorry for him and are hoping he'll pick up a modicum of good English in the process. I could have told them that he was a hopeless case but of course they didn't listen to me.
I would also suggest that you review the last verse of your poem. You must understand that you have no chance of besting your friend Daisy. It is one of the immutable laws of nature that the female of the species always has the upper hand. Your chances of "showing her" as the poem suggests are so remote there is no point in giving the odds.
All in all I think you should see that poem in the light in which I can only presume it was written, a pleasant piece of fantasy to tickle a little laughter from the bosses.
Your friend,
Heidi.
Comment by Heidiclyde
Yer godda'be jokin ent'yer? Grey's us gettin pomes writ abaht'em alla'time. Tells yer what, I even writ one fer me column whut I writes fer GRSA, thut's'er bidduv'er lark ah'cn tell yer.
Me pome goes like this:-
Amber’s Classy,
She’s Janice’s Glassy.
Heidi me mate,
Looks bonza, first rate!
An Pirate all black,
He’s tops, crackerjack!
Snowy’s smart an’es wise,
GAP’s purler an prize.
Nitro’s er trimmer,
Fer looks ‘es ther winner.
But me? Clyde ther bush coot,
Just looks like er chewed boot,
All ribs an er prick,
With’an ‘ead like er split brick,
Yeah, ‘ef looks ud bin ther winner
Struth I’d uv cum er Gutser!
Yer'dun know any'uv ther hounds ceptin Heidi an me, they're all me mates but, 'ceptin we're real sad cos Snowy died last week. E'were Angela's boy, a real top hound. E'were sick like ol Scratch. We're all gunna miss 'im heaps.
See'ya!
Clyde.
Comment by Rumble
wags,
Rumble
Comment by Chris Champion
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Are you sure you're not just a teensy weensy iddibit jealous? How many poems have you have written about you?
Personally, I can't write poetry at all. But I do know that Larry rhymes with star.
L
Comment by Chris Champion
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I read your poem carefully, then I read it again. Then I thought about it for a while, then I thought about it some more. Then I read it again.
All in all, it was a good way to kill 10 minutes when it's close to dinner time.
Wags,
Larry
Comment by Chris Champion
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A poem about greyhounds not chasing balls is right up there with poems about stars not shining at night. Take it from me. Having retired from racing I have started a new career as a ball chaser, and I have quickly reached elite achievement levels, if I say so myself.
I even suggested Big Boss write a blog post about my ball-chasing expertise, but he never listens to me.
Licks,
Larry