There are many who say that a dog has its day,
And a cat has a number of lives;
There are others who think that everyone is pink,
As we all know they are in the inside.
There are fewer, of course, who insist that a white man
Has a horn and two humps on its head,
And a fellow who jests that a mare can build nests
Is as rare as a monkey that's well read.
Yet in spite of all this, I have moments of bliss,
For I cherish a passion for tomes,
And though doubtful of biscuit, I'm willing to risk it
Even though our Aunt is bereft.
