| In a dog’s life |
| A year is really more like seven |
| And all too soon a canine |
| Will be chasing cars in doggie heaven |
| It seems to me |
| As we make our own few circles 'round the sun |
| We get it backwards |
| And our seven years go by like one |
| Dog years -- It’s the season of the itch |
| Dog years -- With every scratch it reappears |
| In the dog days |
| People look to Sirius |
| Dogs cry for the moon |
| But these connections are mysterious |
| It seems to me |
| While it’s true that every dog will have his day |
| When all the bones are buried |
| There is barely time to go outside and play |
| Dog years -- It’s the season of the itch |
| Dog years -- With every scratch it reappears |
| Dog years -- For every sad son of a bitch |
| Dog years -- With his tail between his ears |
| I’d rather be a tortoise from Galapagos |
| Or a span of geological time |
| Than be living in these dog years |
| In a dog’s brain |
| A constant buzz of low-level static |
| One sniff at the hydrant |
| And the answer is automatic |
| It seems to me |
| As well make our own few circles 'round the block |
| We’ve lost our senses |
| For the higher-level static of talk |