Marcus Octavius was a lab, Though most men called him Mo. I knew him only in old age, As far as dog years go. He loved to ring his bell for treats And relieve himself on lawn. He could play dead upon command, When finger gun was drawn. Now no bell rings and yard is run By naught but squirrel and deer. No bark rings through the halls, For Mo's no longer here. Farewell Mo, good dog you were, Good boy now gone to sleep. No longer do you play at death; For you today we weep.
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