I give my mate a croggy
when he walks to Vernon Park,
his black eyes are always open
and he's game for any laugh.
He's six-feet-two from head to foot
and he grips with vice-like claws,
my BMX is twice as slow
when he's holding down the forks.
Voice louder than a foghorn,
and his stare's a certain thing
that cuts its way through tarmac
and clears space with people in:
he's my shotgun vigilante
big ears flapping in the wind,
we're the kings of dirty alleyways
and overflowing bins.
I know he's got my back but still
there are times I have my doubts:
when he chases after pussy
with his fat tongue hanging out;
when he's bending knees by lamp-posts;
when his breath's hot on my neck,
'cos he wants to make acquaintance
with somebody's arse direct.
He's always after something,
calls it "following his nose"
(which itself just can't stop twitching
though it's snorted more than most),
but I guess it's not surprising
that it's not all fun and games,
when you're giving doggy croggys
to a bloody great Great Dane!
