Gone

All that he was doing,
Was chasing down the cars.
An instinct bourne of years
He kept them from his boundarys,
That they would dare to pass.

Now he lies there quietly,
Shallow breath his final move.
One eye on the bitumen,
Not the turf that he deserved.
One eye gazing upward,
It does not see the sky.
His ears, they do not hear,
His masters mournful cries.

In just a fleeting moment,
His maker calls him "home".
And its in his mind, life flashes,
Images of all hes known.
He feels no pain and doesn't know,
Hes about to leave us here.

The cars fly past his body now,
His master sheds a tear.
He lies in silent numbness,
The blood cooling at his feet.
He no longer feels,
The sunshines early morning heat.

Now hes dead and gone,
The cars keep passing on.
It seems to me a sad ol' world,
From which his spirits gone.

All that he was doing,
Was rounding up the cars.
How was he to know,
That his instincts were so wrong.