I got a itching that somehow seems profound,
Here at the Pound Puppy estate,
Seems my back and my wrists are growing some fur,
Yet apparently, it's great.

Fingers are plump, with a claw, it must be turning to a paw,
My ears get fluffy and dangle, this is more than I can handle, I must be becoming a dog.

My mouth is stretching into a stern muzzle, my nose is growing shiny & black,
With help from new friends like Woofster, Bright Eyes and Howler, we'll make canine adoptions a snap.

It's not wrong, for the dogs, though the creepsters want them gone,
My butt cheeks are receding, my kibble love's isn't fleeting, you kids should give them and us some love.

(Soon her hair shrivels, except some big wavy bangs, to match her original brown fur, the jeans she was supposed to wear before went from mangy denim to soft blue cotton tying themselves into a comforting socktopus for everyone to chew and play with, the sleeves on her violet blouse shrank and inflated to the shape and size of big peaches & the remaining belt sprouted in the middle becoming a commandeering fluffy apron that ties itself really tight on Nose Marie, seeing how she's glad going back to her original form.)

That took so long, but that life's gone, being a human being was wrong,
Though as a neat freak yuppie, we're still Pound Puppies, give us a good home, I mean come on.

Woofster: Nice song, Nose Marie. Good to have you back.
Nose Marie: Done satisfied to be back, but what's going on with those little ol' shape-shifting blue panties over there?
Woofster: Whoa! Those aren't panties, it's my woogie. Thank goodness.
Deserving to be adopted dog: Excuse me! What the derp is a woogie?
Woofster: Don't worry about it.