(for the dog of a friend of ours who is an escape artist)
Looking for an opening
In the garden gate
He spies it and then races through
Might close if he should wait
Racing down the tiny street
There’s smells and stuff galore
With food beside the garbage cans
And cats up by the store
Which way you goin’, Owen?
Zigzagging down the lane,
Until it’s dinner time at home
You won’t be back again
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