I have a nose that’s called a “pug;”
Some say it makes me look quite smug.
My mother quips: “Cute as a bug!”
All I can do is blush and shrug.
That shot-gun nose, it smells just swell;
Looks silly, though – oh gee, oh well!
I’m told its squished like half a bell.
It makes me shy – but don’t you tell.
I might as well accept my fate,
My nose IS mine, at any rate.
I can’t afford to shun and hate
What leads me to the restaurant’s bait.
I smell those rolls a block away,
All spicy, sweet – a wide array.
But don’t they lead to tooth decay?
And won’t the scales “up” what I weigh?
Ah, drat you, nose – it’s all your fault!
You silly thing, you cannot halt!
And so I march into the vault
Where someone asks, “You want a malt?”
Oh nose, how could you – really, how?
Why don’t you stop it – stop right now?
I guess I’m doomed - to you I bow.
My piggish snout makes me a sow.
Why can’t I have a slim-line nose -
One small and pert; a sweet pink rose?
Sigh … no one wants to hear my woes.
So now I’ll stop – my mouth just froze.
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