Hitlers Dog Loved Him
"When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe.
And storied urns record who rest below.
When all is done, upon his toms is seen--
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, breathes, fights, lives, for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth;
While man, vain insect, hopes to be forgiven
And claims himself a sole, exclusive heaven.
O, man, thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Thou degraded mass of animated dust.
Thy love is lust, they friendship all a cheat,
Thy smile hypocrisy, thy words deceit.
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye who perchance behold this simple urn,--pass on;
It honors n one you wish to mourn.
To make a friend's remains these stones arise--
I never knew but one, and here he lies."
Author H. Scott Welch