He’s calling his dog
in the high moorland fog
where folks climb the pathway
to ramble and jog

Shouting its name with a growing despair
his voice falling flat
in the deadening air

Comes across me,
wonders where it could be
and tells me the cost
of this rare pedigree.

Up here you can stroll
and not see a soul.
But you nod when you do
‘cos they’re up here
like you.

But this beer-belly chap
in his Adidas cap
just brings it to crap.
Leaving copious piles
over treacherous miles

And you don’t get a nod
from the ignorant sod.

Somewhere out there
where the track rises steep
He let it go crapping
and snapping at sheep.

So, All Poop, No Scoop,
with your dog in pea soup.
Try not to worry
but you may have to hurry
for your dog may alarm a
cantankerous farmer.
And likely as not
could be callously shot.


Now he heads west
unsuitably dressed.
Westwards is harsh -
just tussock and marsh.
I helped him decide;
It went that way, I lied.

Hi Sir_Nigel,

Very good. I really like this. :thumbsup:

Good use of imagery to conjure up the damp moor land vista & I especially like the surreptitious comment in the last line, class.

The four line stanzas with the odd five line stanza worked well, but I think the two line stanza looked out of place; it could do with a few lines adding there.

Some of the lines may benefit from a few minor tweaks, just to make the rhyme flow a little better, apart from this I thought the poem was excellent & very funny, I like this droll humour, I'd be tempted to re-title the piece "Westward Ho!" because this would be funny in an incongruous way, contrasting with the flat, restrained tone of the narrator. What do you think?

Hi Sir Nigel

I loved this poem - made me smile

I agree with Mantaspook about the name 'Westward Ho!' would be so tongue in cheek!

I wish I could get to grips with the review blinking thing on my version of Word but I can't. I have made some suggestions which I think would help the poem to flow better. You can tell me to sod off if you like (I'm a Northern lass - I can take it!) If you read the poem out loud you may see what I mean.

He’s calling his dog
in the high moorland fog
where folks climb the pathway
to ramble and jog

He’s shouting its name
with growing despair
his voice falling flat
in the deadening air

He comes across me;
wonders, where can it be?
and tells me the cost
of this rare pedigree.

Up here you can stroll
and see not a soul.
But you nod when you do
‘cos they’re up here
like you.

But this beer-bellied chap
in his Adidas cap
just lets the dog crap.
Leaving copious piles
over treacherous miles
And you don’t get a nod
from the ignorant sod.

Somewhere out there
where the track rises steep
He let it go crapping
and snapping at sheep.
All Poop, No Scoop,
and **** like pea soup.

I tell him don’t worry
but you may have to hurry
your dog may alarm a
cantankerous farmer.
And likely as not
could be callously shot.

Now he heads west
unsuitably dressed.
Westwards is harsh -
just tussock and marsh.
I walk on with pride
I helped him decide;
“It’s that way.” I lied.