The snarling dog that bit your hand
Once belonged to Captain Shand,
Who scandalised the neighbourhood
By doing things you really should
Not do with sheep and paid the price
For being caught not once, but twice
And went down for a fair old stretch
(And well deserved, the filthy wretch!)
And then came back from stir all smiles
And lounged about on gates and stiles,
As if we’d all forgot the harm
He’d done to creatures of the farm,
Singing and playing on his uke
(Oh Lordy, how it makes me puke
To even think of him, the creep!)
Songs about his love of sheep!
While Shand would have his violent way,
That dog would hold the shepherd at bay
With yellow teeth and horrid snarl.
His master called him “Albermarle”,
After the private members’ club
In London’s Mayfair where this grub-
-by scion of a diseased tree
Disgraced his dying family
With escapades too gross to mention
Here. With just his army pension
Left, having completely frittered
His fortune, and leaving London littered
With the casualties of his appetite,
This loathsome endoparasite
Came back home to our peaceful village
And put us all to rape and pillage—
Species, sex and generation
Notwithstanding. The ovine population
Walked in fear and dread of meeting
The captain and his dog. The bleating
At all hours of the day and night
Was piteous to hear. Their plight
Was desperate—no hope, none at all,
When the Captain came to call.
Why, you ask, do we put up
With the captain’s dog? E’en as a pup
He was a nasty piece of work.
Why let the slavering monster smirk
And bark at common decency,
When only very recently
He was aiding and abetting Shand’s
Filth with other men, whose stands
When sheep were near indicated
A vileness never vindicated
By nobility of birth, or death
Heroic?
No, Shand’s dying breath
Was not a holy martyr’s sigh,
Nor did he repent, express
Remorse for his abominable excess,
And never once apologised
To animals whose compromised
Innocence made angels weep
—And I wept too for all those sheep.
This brings us back to Albemarle,
Who the captain taught to bite and snarl.
He taught him other things as well,
For which he’ll no doubt burn in hell.
Watching Shand among the fleeces,
The dog learned a taste for other species,
—But not for sheep. His pulse throbbed faster
When he gazed on his rampant master.
As well as giving him protection,
He longed to show his rough affection,
And watching Shand about his fun,
Thought this must be how it was done.
I should explain that Albemarle was
A Great Dane and a Pit Bull cross.
He had ferocity and size,
And much admired his master’s thighs.
One night, in a God-forsaken byre,
Infected by the captain’s fire,
And devoted to his master dear,
He set upon him from the rear—
Aye, entered the captain from behind!
His canine lust was unrefined
By human intercourse, and so—
But that was seven years ago.
The man had lived in mortal sin:
An access of love—yes!—did him in.
His final words expressed no fear
Of hell—but they were hell to hear.
According to his batman, Carl,
They were: “That’s it! Good dog, Albemarle!”
The sheep beheld those canine shanks
And leapt on him to give him thanks,
The only way they knew now, and
All that they’d absorbed from Shand
They gave back, ah! a hundred times
To Albemarle. The captain’s crimes
Came home to roost upon the person
Of his dog! Bring the hearse on
For the captain! But for his hound
Let the grateful hills resound!
And that's why Albemarle is seen
Lounging on the Village Green,
Snarling at the passers-by.
He’s licensed to be horrid by
The Parish Clerk, a man called Hillage,
Who, speaking for a grateful village,
Made Albemarle a Freeman and,
For getting rid of Captain Shand,
Proclaimed that he was free to run,
Free to have whatever fun
Where’er he wished, and he was free
To be whate’er he chose to be:
Free to snarl and free to bite,
Free to fart and free to fight
Whomso’er he chose to light
Into—fright old ladies into fits—
And free to take his monstrous shits
Where’er he liked. What’s obscenity,
When he had brought serenity
Of mind to damaged hearts,
Of heart to damaged minds?
The damaged sheep and their behinds
Resumed their gambolling—joy to see!—
And safely grazed upon the lea.
One night this Hillage had told the vet
To “stand by while the vicar and I get
Ablemarle drunk on vodkatinis
(Which he had learned to drink with blinis)
In the Lamb & Flag. Hide by the pump—
That’s where he likes to take a dump—
And when he does, you take this club
To his head. We’ll be in the pub.
And while he’s sleeping where he falls,
Take out your blade. Remove his balls—
That’ll teach him to get blootered!”
And that’s how Albemarle got neutered.
A little nip from Albermarle,
A pile of shit, a yellow snarl,
Inspire no fear. He makes us laugh,
Now that he’s much less than half
The dog he was. He still has rages
But we all grin at his rampages.
Oh, he still loves to drink and brawl,
But doesn’t have the wherewithal
To do the things he used to do—
His life is sad, his pleasures few.
If he gets nasty on the booze,
We just call in some rams and ewes.
They sort him out—he can’t abide
These woolly creatures by his side.
Our happy village safe may sleep—
Bless Albemarle! God bless our sheep!
