THE MAN WHO POISONS DOGS
Thewhelp who did the trick, I think he knows—I think he feels it everywhere he goes.A dog knows he’s a dog—there’s no pretend,He starts out dog and he’s dog to the end.At that, he’s got a dog’s sense of what’s rightAnd lives dog-loyalty according to his light.And when a man less than a dog, he knows—Though he may look like man and wear man’s clothes,He knows the scut he is beneath it all.The dog knew too—that’s why he tried to crawlBack home—up to his kennel by the shed—Dragged all the way—just like a lump of lead,Because no self-respecting, decent houndWould want to die upon his poisoner’s groundIf he could get away. Just what the useWas, doing it—or what kind of excuseHe had, is more than I can figure out.We raised that yellow hound—he’s gone aboutFor five years now and he was decent stuff,And there’s no reason I know good enoughFor what he got. A poisoner’s not the kindTo say—“That yellow cur of yours—you’ll findHim here—I murdered him!” Or else—“That houndYou’ve got up there—I poisoned him, I foundHim running round my stable-yard today.”When he’s through with his job, he doesn’t sayThose things, because it’s not a poisoner’s way—His secret’s kept between himself and GodAnd that dumb brute that rots beneath the sod.
Thewhelp who did the trick, I think he knows—I think he feels it everywhere he goes.A dog knows he’s a dog—there’s no pretend,He starts out dog and he’s dog to the end.At that, he’s got a dog’s sense of what’s rightAnd lives dog-loyalty according to his light.And when a man less than a dog, he knows—Though he may look like man and wear man’s clothes,He knows the scut he is beneath it all.The dog knew too—that’s why he tried to crawlBack home—up to his kennel by the shed—Dragged all the way—just like a lump of lead,Because no self-respecting, decent houndWould want to die upon his poisoner’s groundIf he could get away. Just what the useWas, doing it—or what kind of excuseHe had, is more than I can figure out.We raised that yellow hound—he’s gone aboutFor five years now and he was decent stuff,And there’s no reason I know good enoughFor what he got. A poisoner’s not the kindTo say—“That yellow cur of yours—you’ll findHim here—I murdered him!” Or else—“That houndYou’ve got up there—I poisoned him, I foundHim running round my stable-yard today.”When he’s through with his job, he doesn’t sayThose things, because it’s not a poisoner’s way—His secret’s kept between himself and GodAnd that dumb brute that rots beneath the sod.
Thewhelp who did the trick, I think he knows—I think he feels it everywhere he goes.A dog knows he’s a dog—there’s no pretend,He starts out dog and he’s dog to the end.At that, he’s got a dog’s sense of what’s rightAnd lives dog-loyalty according to his light.And when a man less than a dog, he knows—Though he may look like man and wear man’s clothes,He knows the scut he is beneath it all.The dog knew too—that’s why he tried to crawlBack home—up to his kennel by the shed—Dragged all the way—just like a lump of lead,Because no self-respecting, decent houndWould want to die upon his poisoner’s groundIf he could get away. Just what the useWas, doing it—or what kind of excuseHe had, is more than I can figure out.We raised that yellow hound—he’s gone aboutFor five years now and he was decent stuff,And there’s no reason I know good enoughFor what he got. A poisoner’s not the kindTo say—“That yellow cur of yours—you’ll findHim here—I murdered him!” Or else—“That houndYou’ve got up there—I poisoned him, I foundHim running round my stable-yard today.”When he’s through with his job, he doesn’t sayThose things, because it’s not a poisoner’s way—His secret’s kept between himself and GodAnd that dumb brute that rots beneath the sod.