Chompers and I sit quietly,
On my south facing porch
Built the turn of last century.
He must be British,
Waiting so patiently,
Constantly judging.
His ancestors probably
Came by Yankee Clipper
Intending to dominate,
Skulking in the cargo bay.
He certainly is a presence
Basking in the sun,
Lying in wait.
Seriously connected,
At the slightest tug
He goes apoplectic.
Stroking keys,
Following links,
Missing everything,
He eats a bug.
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