O, curse this cur, which ever dogs me thus!
His fur is fetid; foul his slobb'ring tongue
And fleas infest his nether limbs and head
With mange and canker is he stricken sore,
And with dull groans doth ease his palsied lot,
Incurable, alas, by physic's might.
Poor dog!

                Hey, master, stop! Now listen, please
Stay not your ear, eschew not my entreaty
Give your mouth's expression moment's sense
That with my own you'll fill the vacant mind
That now possess we both – equally so
Shall our dull sentences be not unspoke
Without such null-surmise as you befits
And shall be found withal.

                                      Yet, if not quite ...
I fear – begone, you mongrel, spare my shin!

Speak not thus! This dog's no dog, I woot!
It's but a second coming, if you will,
(Presaging matters better talked of low
Or in the guise of muddled syntax hid)
Of one long gone, or now in sundry essence
Transf'igur'd. See! It begs to know what time
It shall be fed – prosaic, aye, & true
But, thinking of our former woes, we see
The paucity of thought abune this globe
Where madmen rule the waves: so think again.

I feel aughtwhit confused, nay, greatly, much,
But if ... Bit'st me again, O rancid cur?
Go, dog! Your like I little like, belike;
What was I saying? Yes, if ... Ah, my calf!

Thou fetid cur

                           This death is meet for thee.