What I read is scandalous, my boy,
For it says that pugs are hobgoblins

With big bug eyes and wrinkly little faces,
And it says their pudgy bodies
Are like potatoes baking in the sun
And that they look like old men.
I will say the pattern of their faces
Reminds me of the pansy,
And they have dark spots upon the sides,
Sometimes in double pips:
This is not a matter of dispute.

There are some who check the stocks
And some who check the weather,
But my boy, he is wise. He checks the pugs:
The fawn, the ebon, the silver, the brindle,
The ever rare chocolate
And the pink-nosed pugbino,
The long-tongued veterans
And the diminutive debutantes,
The dark-eyed heart-thieves
And the grizzled one-eyed rescues,
The jet-setters and the yoga posers
And the backpackers in the mist,
The pugs who live the drowsy life
And the pugs who dash the courses,
The joyful, the gullible,
The clueless and concerned.
There is a pug for every season
And every purpose under heaven,
And there is no tragedy so great,
No sorrow so confounding
That it cannot yet be tempered
By a timely, relevant pug.