Black as pitch and twice as bitchy,
A lunch for lice, forever itchy.
Stitched from bits of rotting kitties,
That litter roads, that dot the city.

A rancid stench of dying flesh,
From rotting limbs, secured with mesh,
Held together, with sticks and stones,
And little brittle baby bones.

It's tail slung low, and never twitching,
Held on with paste, and leather stitching,
Steeped in waste, all caked and creeping,
A rectum weep, with constant seeping.

A shadow stinking, on a gloomy night,
With one eye blind and swooned in white,
What's left of ears, show years of ware,
Split and bitten, and void of hair.

It drags itself, in a hazy struggle
It's lazy breaths, a deadly juggle,
Clinging to life, by will and by magic,
Her festering friend, so pretty and tragic.

© James Moynihan