Stray

He once had a home but he strayed away,
Perhaps he just wanted to see the town
Or maybe the folks with whom he had stayed
Didn't care anymore for a dog around;
And so little Rags was out on his own,
There was no warm bed when the night came down,
He grew lank and thin, for his only fare
Was from garbage cans in the yards downtown.

 It wasn't his fault that he had no home
But a friendly curb where he often sat
And wagged his tail to each passerby,
For a kindly word, or a little pat;
There was no one cared, so his coat was black
 With the dirt and grime of the city street
 But his pleading eyes scanned each passing face
As if there was one he had hoped to meet.

Then, came the tale of a maddened dog
 Like the witchcraft tales we have read about
And they took it up with a vow to shoot
Every little stray, if they found him out;
And poor little Rags went his usual way,
With no other sin on his doggie head
Than being turned out by the folks he loved,
And a hungry stomach that cried for bread.

So he whines in pain-and a pistol cracked
In the hand of one he had thought a friend,
And little black Rags was a stray no more
For there are no strays just Around the Bend. . .
Just a small thin heap of quivering flesh
 A touch of red on the April sod
 Homeless and hungry, but true to the End,
And the soul of Rags had gone back to God.

-Marty Hale