The cur’s feral; he will bay night and day,
He is hurtin’ poor shepherds as their flocks he slays.
In their fields he will slay, where they’re keeping their sheep
With a bold rip ’em bi-ite that’s sweeping and deep.
Feral, feral. . . .
Gored are the thi-ings that give wool to sell.

He-e snea-eaks up without blathering barks,
Dining in a sheep fea-east in gathering dark.
He will chew-ew no dearth and his manners are slight;
There’s a clamor as through lanolin damned dog bites!
Feral, feral. . . .
Gored are the things that give wool that wears well.

Yes, bi-ite and bite, snacking on tasty parts. . .
Needed, wise man in this game who can then outsmart
Thi-is cur-ur-ursèd cur that see-eems hell-sent;
It is certain he’s not given up lamb for Lent.
Farewell, farewell. . . .
“Gone is the flesh”—carnival sure was swell.

So they hi-ired a guy who told them he knew best
How to rid ovine brethren of this canine pest.
He informed them than they would hang his paws one day
Over the fireplace as a trophy that they’d
Herald, herald. . . .
Gone will be the thing; mounted he’ll look swell.

He then en-entered in, the wise man, to the field,
Wending his way with weapons, well-prepared to wield
A-and off righ-ight there, brooking no flawed nonsense,
Hi-is foe draped in fu-ur with flea flocks flocced dense.
Farewell, farewell. . . .
Gone will be the thing finds mutt-on fare swell.

In the crepuscule he crept through non-flea’d fleecy horde—
He schlepped then stepped in feces; epithets he roared.
Then he slipped and he tripped in what the beast had wrought’
As he lay in waste, canine raised leg—stream ran hot.
Peril, peril. . . .
Peril of perro poo; it sure doo smell!