In the West lived a corndog, Clyde,who thought of himself as a pet.
His dream; opera at the Met!
Others there—all carnivorous—smacked their lips when Clyde took the stage.
(Apparently ‘dogs’ are the ‘rage’.)
They savored Clyde’s scent ev’ry night—the ‘star’ welcomed him to her room.
She spread out a bun—‘twas too soon!
She wanted ‘something’ then and there … Clyde substituted a pickle.
With her tongue, the pickle tickled.
Still desiring a wee weenie, she followed Clyde when he would sing.
She even gave Clyde a gold ring.
Clyde decided to go ‘country’ then did some jazz as well as blues.
He looked so cool in blue, suede shoes.
Lucille, his honey, loved money so when Clyde got a little horse,
she packed her bags and left, of course.
You know … ev’ry dog has his day! There’s a time to live, laugh and thrive.
Pickles, his friend, clung to his side.
He of’t disguised himself … weenie; don’t have to flip a page to know
pickles lack the taste we love so.
Clyde donated his celery; he didn’t really need the ‘green’.
He is a ‘sport’ … is never mean.
Everyone wants to be top dog but all have to ‘squat’ now and then.
Everyone has grown since ‘back when’ …
Lo, don’t forget that Clyde’s a dog and Pickle ne’er came off a log.
(Condiments weigh both guys, they’re bogs!)

“This aria’s for dear Pickles,
who, last night, went down a fans ‘hatch’
(breathing heavily, wanting me, … natch).
I’d name my wee ones after you
but I will never have a one.
I wear a ‘patch’ for having fun.”

“Don’t keep depression … let it slide!
On me do jump, stick and ride Clyde!”