Mighty Kemba at the Park

The outlook wasn’t sunny over Winslow Park that day;

But the parking lot was all but full, and Kemba still had to play.

And then when Patricia kicked the ball and Kemba went to get it,

Bullet snatched it clean from out his jaws; you’ve got to give him credit.

So my dog turned to Jamie, appealing for some help,

She was busy with her Lincoln, though, chasing Sadie, with a yelp.

Dede tried her best to calm things down; she’s, after all, the Mayor,

But the hounds then added Wolf to the fray to have another player.

Oh no! There’s Larry!  I thought, my Kemba’s gonna jump him!

But Larry laughs, says it’s okay, so long’s he doesn’t hump him.

Then from some 20 throats at once there rose a lusty blast,

Warning all of us to watch our step as we entered the tall grass.

“Folks don’t always scoop,” they said, “what their dogs produce,

And woe is he who gets in his car wearing that stuff on his boots!”

‘Twas then we saw the “walkers,” behind each one, their dogs;

Glenn sat there like a Buddha, perched upon his log.

There was ease in Ana’s manner, as she kept her pups in place,

And pride in Anthony’s bearing, as he tossed a stick with grace.

Next, Kemba rushed at Carrie, for he thought she had some food!

(Was is Carrie, or was it Daphne?  I get my dogs and peeps confused.)

When from the trail came striding, a white Lab cute and boxy.

Kemba’s ears perked up, for he knew at once, ‘twas Stefanie and Roxy.

By now my boy had sniffed ‘nough butts, it was surely time to go;

“Not yet,” wagged Kemba, “We’ve not yet seen my Zoey or Kilo,

Nor Eli the fine coonhound, he of the coat of red,

Who sometimes comes with Celia, and sometimes comes with Fred,

Neither have I seen Lily, nor a glance of Lucca,

Nor Buddy, Tinsel, Saatchi, Winston, Harley, Sneaker, Cooper.”

Oh, nowhere in this country wide, in sun nor in the dark,

Lies there a heath more fun, more dear, than our fair Winslow Park.

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