That Sure is My Little Dog

Yes, indeed, that is my house that I am carrying around 
on my back like a bullet-proof shell and yes, that sure is
my little dog walking a hard road in hard boots. And 
just wait until you see my girl, chomping on the chains
of fate with her mouth full of jagged steel. She’s damn
ready and so am I. What else did you expect from the 
brainiacs of my generation? The survivors, the nonbelievers, 
the oddball-outs with the Cuban Missile Crisis still 
sizzling in our blood? Don’t tell me that you bought 
our act, just because our worried parents (and believe me,
we’re nothing like them) taught us how to dress for work
and to speak as if we cared about our education. And 
I guess the music fooled you: you thought we’d keep 
the party going even to the edge of the abyss. Well,
too bad. It’s all yours now. Good luck on the ramparts.
What you want to watch for is when the sky shakes
itself free of kites and flies away. Have a nice day.