The Blue Lacy

He’s of a faithful breed, my dog, a hunting hound, a clever beast,

a lean and hungry Cassius, but faithful all the same–

He races me to the rotting log and runs to ground the boar at feast

who’ll soon be ours–Alas for us, the boar knows his Wild Game!

He lunges up in fear and rage: his tusks are aiming for my throat,

and I have tripped into my grave on roots as strong as sin–

But Blue has taken center stage, leaps on the boar’s mad, bristly coat,

gives me the breath my knife to save, hangs on as it plunges in–

The boar falls back with a bloody scream but turns on me his fiery glare,

and then, in an instant, strikes once more, for he means my dog to die–

I yank the roots, trip him into the stream! and Blue and I tear away from there–

and we relish our supper of beans–no boar–my faithful hound and I.