Dear Mr. Hound Dog,

In reference to your wonderful poem, such an excellent effort deserves something else:

I loved the lyrics
Of Hound Dog the Cool
They made me squirm
And wet my stool

The one my buttocks polish
Under my lap
(No way, I'm not into that
Other "crap!")

And they make me think
Of the things I enjoy
Being slapped silly
And treated like toy

Dirty toes stuffed
In my mouth to lick
And if I do a good job
I might get a prick!

But if I don't get 'em clean
I must then suck a ball
While a finger up my ass
Makes my skin crawl

A slave on a stick
Alas! not the stick I crave
But I wiggle my ass
And try to be brave

And dive real deep
Like I've been taught
Taking breaths when I can
Ah, such is a slave's lot

So feel sorry for me
Who can't come up for air
My life is so hard
My life is unfair!

And it's all because
Of Tops like Donald and you
That people like me
Find our faces turning blue

Not to mention our bottoms
And oh, our poor rumbling tummies
When certain cruel masters
Rufuse us all our favorite yummies

But enough of this complaining
And on to better stuff
Like a pickle grabber's fangs
And being handled rough

And getting waked each morning
With a lovely little song
And paddled off to breakfast
And ordered not to take too long

And if I were to dawdle
Or burn his favorite things
I'd feel the ice cubes in my panties
And the bruises and the stings

Which make me think of my good fortune
And thank my lucky star
That I am more often a footstool
Than a bimbo in a bar

Where all the straight guys gather
And drool upon their tavern stools
When a girl like me enters
Wearing collar, chains, and Rules

But look, now we're back to stools!
Now how'd I manage that?
Must be a kink in my unconscious
(Or a poem that's gotten fat)

I wish I could eat enough to get fat
But that's neither here nor there
So Hound Dog, thank you for your poem
(Rising from stoo- er, I mean chair)

(And applauding Hound Dog loudly
For that silly little poem
That in the middle of my work deadline
Made me laugh and and made me groan)