Day 18
A friend said she was waiting for a hot dog and I thought well aren't we all,
I think it was a metaphor. I asked, "What time's it due?"
Had it far to travel? Where were they to meet?
She said it was spot on, but had already come and gone,
It was just a fleeting romance, short and sweet.
So I spent the long day chewing over where the hell's my hot dog,
Contemplating how a dog might find its way to me,
At this point I'm not picky; I don't even need a bun.
Could my hoped-for hot dog one day become a got dog?
I deserve it surely more than anyone.
I half-suspect my friend of fabrication. It could be that there never was a dog,
A metaphor is like a lie, of that there is no doubt,
If so, the famous hot dog would indeed become a not dog,
A fiction cooked up, dressed and trotted out,
By a sneaky fox,
Like a cat,
In a box.
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