There was a little dog
who had a curl of tail
right at the base of her spine.
And when she was bad
she was naughty as could be
But when she was good, she was just fine.
She enjoyed a good long walk —
up the mountain, round the block —
where’ere her pointed paws might wander.
And when she had found
that curl of tail would still, that she might ponder.
All chores she would attend
in unrelenting fashion —
from window, porch and door and garden.
But come evening’s fall,
darkness pressed to every pane,
The nearest lap she’d seek to curl that tail in.
(With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)