With apologies to Walt Whitman
I Sing the Beagle Electric
I sing the beagle electric;
Floppy ears of our sweet beagle so velvet,
And the beagles for adoption at PetsMart
They will not let me off till I talk with them,
Respond to them, scratch their own velvet ears,
Wish them luck in finding a home
As soft as the home of our sweet little beagle,
Once unloved and wishing for a home of her own.
Now rescued and sleeping on our couch.
She will not let me off till I pet her ears, scratch her back,
Pet her belly, and charge it full with the charge of the Soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own beagles spoil themselves?
And yet I must sneak treats to the beagle after dinner.
And if the beagle does not do as much as the Soul?
How can it be? The beagle is Soul.
The love of the beagle balks account.
The beagle herself barks account.
The beagle is perfect,
And her floppy ears are perfect.
Her breath is not perfect. But
The expression of her face balks account;
The expression of a well-made beagle appears not only in her face;
It is in her limbs and joints also,
It is curiously in the joints of her paws and tail;
It is in her trot, the carriage of her neck,
The fur on her snout, the wag of her tail,
Her bare belly so eager to be rubbed.
Her collar does not hide her;
The strong, sweet, supple quality she has
Strikes through the soft brown eyes;
To see her sniff conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more;
You linger to see her joy,
At the smell of rabbits yet unseen.
I sing the beagle electric,
But the beagle herself is unplugged;
The beagle is not digital;
The beagle just is.