The Hound Dog
I was talking the other day to a notorious hound dog;
His belt was full of notches for all to see, it is his log.
The thrill of the hunt, the chase, the kill; his only concerns;
Not caring about the memory in his conquests he has earned.
He talks with a vile sneer, it's as if his women are not real;
I've got to wonder how this veneer of a man can possibly appeal.
He now grows older and fatter, yet his game never ends;
This dog attempts to make it with the wives of all his friends.
Not a wolf in sheep's clothing, no, he is boldly up front;
He simply asks for some lovin', he is as crass as he is blunt.
He is married, but this doesn't seem to tether him at all;
Doing his thing, then he returns to his comfortable stall.
I am appalled by his actions deep in my soul, I detest his life;
I wonder about the woman who agreed to become his wife.
As a hopeful romantic, I care about my memory, my reputation;
The golden heart within my chest has always been my salvation.
How can I be so different from the hound dogs of this world;
Or am I any different, I ponder, as this wisdom is now unfurled.
Are not the girls from my past who remember my gentle ways;
Those who still remember me as that sweet guy of those early days.
Are not these my notches, the mark left on the lives of those I met?
So seldom is there any remorse for my inaction, I have few regrets.
I am happy being that hopeful romantic, let sleeping hound dogs lie;
When I run into someone from my past, I can still look her in the eye.
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