I should have tried the course with younger legs, This hunting-ground is stiff enough to pull The metal heart out of a dog of steel; I should have started back at Pigeon Creek From scratch, not forty years behind the mark. But you can’t change yourself, and, if you could, You might fetch the wrong jack-knife in the swap. It’s up to you to whittle what you can With what you’ve got⁠—and what I am, I am For what it’s worth, hypo and legs and all. I can’t complain. I’m ready to admit You could have made a better-looking dog From the same raw material, no doubt, But, since You didn’t, this’ll have to do.