Dear Santa, remember that ball that I’ve had?
For several years now…it was getting quite bad…
And all that was left was some chewed rubber stuff,
A vague hint of curve and some once-yellow fluff…
I’ve taken good care to be so gentle with it
Not tugged it or torn, so the ball would forgive it,
But age takes its toll and there’s naught that can stop it
Especially when I must ‘fetch it’ and ‘drop it’.
So there’s nothing left and the ball’s like a pancake,
It no longer bounces, it just makes my jaws ache,
But although she’s offered a dozen replacements
Not one of the balls could be any solacement.
“That’s it!” said my two-legs, “the poor ball has bought it,
We must find a method or some way to sort it!
We can’t have you mourning for months being surly
And awful depressed…
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