What is this life, if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare
At puppy droppings on the floor,
Enhanced with worms and print of paw?
What is this life, if full of woe,
We watch not where our footsteps go
And, there behind the door, like glue,
We stand in half-dried puppy poo?
What life is this that costs so dear
To pay attention when we hear
Our puppy scratching at the door?
He's shrugged and done it on the floor.
The moral of this sonnet is
That baby dogs are just like kids.