I am a writer’s dog, that’s me
I sit around all day.
It’s really rather sad you see,
He thinks he’s Hemingway.
We’ve been to Ireland and to France
In our V-W;
He sits there daily in a trance
Or else he’s in a stew.
He says his writing’s going to stall,
It’s headed for the drain.
It’s obvious if you read his scrawl,
There’s nothing in his brain.
It’s time to go out for a walk
Beside the wine-dark sea;
Old Homer talked that fancy talk
But I just want a pee.
O Writer, do what writers should
And get up off your arse
Please try to think of something good
To end this sorry farce.
And if the words don’t come today
Then let me make it clear
That I am going out to play
And you are staying here.