Encounter him and even the nicest of girls turns into a - - witch.
Little do you know that first time you fall into his brown-eyed trap,
Itíll be your last momentís peace before the growl and snap.
Oh sure heíll snuggle in and warm your toes for the parade,
Come the final float though, youíll find heís a grand charade.
And next thing you know heís the itch youíre burning to scratch.
Stop! Thatís your ear! Stop! That hairís your last patch!
Tell him till youíre blue in the face not to feast on his tail.
Remind him he canít order a new paw direct via mail.
Oh, and be careful how you say cease and desist,
Never forget his temperís too hair-trigger to resist,
Eager to smash your ribs and puncture a vein,
Vicious and thankless of your effort to ease his pain.
Each time you save his chin or spare an ear,
Surprise, surprise a snarlís all youíll hear.
Just like a mini-royal looking down his long snout,
Unless you give King Henry his free reign to lick about,
Nothing will spare you from Anne Boleynís tragic fate.
Itís a íverse where youíre only as good as the last trash he ate.
Once upon a while heíll again snuggle quite cozy,
Remember though, beware if youíre fond of your nose-y.