Old Blue’s fate: the blue plate I just ate. . .
wokkin’ bite strays free to roam
on the farm or on streets with less charm. . .
wokkin’ bite strays, me back home.

Throng has strong feelings, say that it’s wrong:
pork-like push in Pom’s puss, pome.
I’m a guy disinclined to deep-fry. . .
wokkin’ sliced strays in my dom’.

I chop for a while, and then go Szechwan-style;
Szechwan for Schnauzer is the best.
Never fress a pet—just strays do I get
that by dogma Pa’s ain’t been blessed.

After I dissect, then it’s stir-fry,
post-paw-extraction of loam.
Gentle Ben this don’t taste like, nor hen.
Watch out! I might find a bone.

[(kitchen) implemental interlude]

Once I’ve stayed the bark, taste meat that is dark;
it’s juicier than the white.
And I will not lie: I once ate an eye—
rolled right down to the stomach site.

Ham I’ve banned, and no barbecue stand
will I stop by when I roam.
Eats I send to my craw: man’s best friend.

Wokkin’ the tasty
dogs—they’re sure tasty!
Loving that tasty
meat—firm, not pasty.
Wokkin’ sliced strays free of bones.