The Buzzard
He was not an ugly bird perched high up in a tree,
surveying his domain as far as eyes could see.
He didn’t eat carrion no matter how ripe it got.
Nor did he disgust people because he smelled like rot.
He didn’t float on air currents high in the sky,
spiraling up skyward as he learned to fly.
He didn’t make his bed in a nest high above ground.
Nor did he make his meals on just anything he found.
The Buzzard I’m referring to has not two legs, but four.
When he eats, he doesn’t get covered in gore.
He is a rather dainty guy of which I’m very fond.
The two of us have formed an unbreakable bond.
Buzzard is just a nickname that I call my dog.
He is a picky eater, not greedy like a hog.
He is a Yorkshire Terrier, a little ball of fluff.
He doesn’t have much heft, but it seems to be enough.
My Yorkie’s name is Buzz, dubbed by a former mom.
When I saw that tiny dog, I thought he was a Pom!
But then he snuggled up all cozy in my arms,
and he was mine forever, to protect from all harm.
As it turned out, Buzz wanted not my protection.
He’d lay down his life for me, for just my affection.
I couldn’t love him anymore if he were cast in gold.
That little Buzzard Boy of mine, so brave and fierce, and bold!
