My dog lies on the parquet floor
she dreams about the clucking ducks
this morn walking out of the door
she wanted to hunt - ah oh schucks.
Her master would not let her run
and now she is ever so sad
a hunter - not a honey bun
born on the streets she was mossad.
Her days of leisure passes fast
once in a blue moon she wakes up
and mourns her freedom in her past
but since then food is in her cup -
though if she gets a chance at last
she hunts a bunny - for her sup'.
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