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The Brentford Mercury

Poetry Page


by Robert Rankin



That’s a wonderful Lurcher you have Mrs Bryant.

I haven’t seen as big a one since long before the war.

Can you make it roll about, play dead or beg a biscuit?

Wink it’s eye or shake your hand by sticking out its paw?

“Actually” said the nubile Mrs Bryant, whose dresses

generally ended 6 inches below her waist, “it’s not a

Lurcher, it’s a Dane.”

“Gettaway. that’s a Lurcher, my father kept them

When I was a lad.” Sam called to a passerby

for confirmation.

“Is that a Lurcher or a Dane, I ask you”

“Looks like a Lurcher” said the fellow,

“She wears very short dresses,”

he continued.

“I know a damn Lurcher when I

see one.”

Sam addressed the brute.

“Are you Dane or Lurcher?”

“Dane”! said one of the dogs heads

“Lurcher”! said the other.

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