I’m a bulldog prince in a velvet cage,
Fed clean little miracles twice a day.
They soap my hide in some Paris foam,
But I miss the stink of the streets I know.
I get my walk on a borrowed leash,
They call it freedom, but it’s bought and brief.
Got a gold tag and a polished bowl,
But this gilded life’s got a stranglehold.
They rub my belly, say, “Boy, you live well,”
But I’m doing hard time in a five-star hell.
I’d trade this satin for a junkyard smell,
They groom me like a king, but life’s pure hell.
Bulldog Blues
© Copyright: Агата Вой, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126032700937
Свидетельство о публикации №126032700937
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