Dead mutt roasting on an open fire—
whacked-dog-grilling scent in nose.
Drool-time famished , feeding gut…midriff tire.
There’s no dressing—that side dish goes.

They ain’t gonna roast a turkey—that’s a vittles “no”;
helps to make the eating trite.
Fine the shot that brought down doomed Fido;
put the partner to “sleep” alright.

Dame got her gat out for the slay;
they’re grilling up a good-boy goody for buffet.
In just a little while, they’re gonna pry
the meat off the grate, canine mate kissed “goodbye.”

They go, post-vittles, onto the next phase:
to mix in with the spineless crew
and roast what they’ve “led” as they while time away.
Very ill things ensue.