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From the Newark Evening Star, March 30, 1915. By W. D. Wegeforth.

He’s a little dog, with a stubby tail, and a moth-eaten coat of tan,
And his legs are short, of the wabbly sort; I doubt if they ever ran;
And he howls at night, while in broad daylight he sleeps like a bloomin’ log,
And he likes the feed of the gutter breed; he’s a most irregular dog.

I call him Bum, and in total sum he’s all that his name implies,
For he’s just a tramp with a highway stamp that culture cannot disguise;
And his friends, I’ve found, in the streets abound, be they urchins or dogs or men;
Yet he sticks to me with a fiendish glee, it is truly beyond my ken.

I talk to him when I’m lonesome like and I’m sure that he understands
When he looks at me so attentively and gently licks my hands;
Then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say aught thereat,
For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that!

So my good old pal, my irregular dog, my flea-bitten, stub-tailed friend,
Has become a part of my very heart, to be cherished till life-time’s end;
And on Judgement Day, if I take the way that leads where the righteous meet,
If my dog is barred by the heavenly guard—we’ll both of us brave the heat.

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