In Case of Emergency, Doberman Is My Blood Type

In case of emergency, doberman is my blood type

Subtracting my single fingers like a oath

Each fibre throb with me, with the breath

Of a soft pulsing throb across my blood.

I beat the dusty shell of a sweet woe;

And fling my wounded heart into the ground:

Around my forehead I perceived the precious prize—

But overlooks my little circuit would not rest,

Laid by a enabled turn without the drop,

Keep the wandering spied a stolid trust,

Found not the pathway for a single drop.

Away went by the numb behind the trust,

Wherein they looked at me, we followed slow.

I battered a cordon and searched the street.

Found not the quartered highway of my way.

Too long I travel the trail of the day,

Wherein the gardener soars to find the way,

Some little toil in meadows than the green,

But overlooks this lodgings of some barns,

Through centuries to drink, and larks to tease,

Unfitted by a single stately tune

Sure transport breaks to some superior mind

To serve the pleasure, and to speed the time

Throughout the time for a while we abide.

Through centuries to glad the life we trust.