Frisky is a jolly good fellow, All of us do state; But Frisky's gone to Piyush's now, And left us all to our fate.

Three years ago, three pups were born, Magically, so to speak. Gobla, Rusty, Frisky--Thekambattans all; Growing rambunctious week by week.

Gobla left us, the others stayed: Mother, son and daughter; Ranged far afield chasing hens and goats; And soon, chasing led to hen-slaughter.

The hens were paid for, many a time, At a hundred bucks a piece, Till Rusty and Magic's luck ran out. But Bad luck didn't come in threes.

Rusty and Magic ate poisoned bandicoot, And died within days of each other. Frisky stopped his roaming at once, And survived his sister and mother.

He walked the razor's edge quite well, Up until April last; When he skinned a sheep in Parman's kaad, And then the "incidents" came thick and fast.

One day last month, some goats strayed in, And Frisky, with a killer's grace, Went for the throat and clamped his jaws, And that settled his case.

I prised his jaws apart and released the goat, And called Piyush to say: "The deed is done, the die is cast, Can I bring him over today?"

The boys were bereft, we were all sorry, But the situation wouldn't keep; And it would have ended, one way or another, With putting Frisky to sleep.

Frisky is a jolly good fellow, All of us reiterate; But Frisky's gone to Piyush's now And left us all in a state.