He's a little dog, with a stubby tail, and a moth-eaten coat of tan,
And his legs are short, of the wabbly sort; I doubt if they ever ran;
And howls at night, while in broad daylight he sleeps like a bloomin' log,
And he likes the food of the gutter breed; he's a most irregular dog.

I call him Bum, and in total sum, he's all that his name implies,
For he's just a tramp with a highway stamp that culture cannot disguise;
And his friends, I've found, in the streets abound, be they urchins or dogs or men;
Yet he sticks to me with a fiendish glee. It is truly beyond my ken.

I talk to him when I'm lonesome-like, and I'm sure that he understands
When he looks at me so attentively and gently licks my hands;
Then he rubs his nose on my tailored clothes, but I never say nought thereat,
For the good Lord knows I can buy more clothes, but never a friend like that!