• It wasn’t what you’d call a dog; it only sat and writhed.
    It wasn’t what you’d call alive; it merely survived.
    It wouldn’t make you want to cry; you’d rather it would die.
    In fact, I’m sure it would agree, and wish that such could be.

    It wasn’t what you’d call abiding; it failed to be responsive.
    It wasn’t what you’d call attractive; more or less repulsive.
    Its pale fur fell out like sweat; but no one seemed to care or fret.
    And why should they? It wouldn’t roam beyond its dreary bed of foam.

    It wasn’t what you’d call jovial; it always shivered dismally.
    It wasn’t what you’d call rosy; destined to suffer eternally.
    What it was, was unsanintary; its floor-defecates were voluntary.
    Those excretions were such a pain, it’s no wonder how came its bane.

    For one day someone got a clue; it wasn’t me, it wasn’t you.
    This person represented all who hated it, and that he knew.
    He lifted it up by the collar, on that fateful day,
    And opened up the garbage can to throw the thing away!

    It wasn’t what you’d call a dog, but you can call it Trash.