Captain Shand & His Dog Albemarle

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!