love is a mangy dog

life is like a mangy dog sleeping in a hollow log with hardly room to scratch or sneeze his only company the fleas that without even saying please feast upon his mortal flesh yes, life is quite a sorry mesh a web of futile desperations solitudes and dissipations and as the flame of life grows slim and dreams of glory fade and dim the dog rolls over on his side with nothing left to hope or hide and hears on high the sudden scratch of a hunter's cigarette-lighting match and through the mist a waning moon murmurs, it will be over soon