A Dogs' View

I'm only just a common racing dog,
  Simple in habit, and my diet's plain.
I have never had a longing for the grog
  That some men seem to need, more vim to gain.
And I have heard it said of such a one,
  Who in his swilling emulates the hogs:
"He's boozing day and night: he's getting done.
  Poor man," they say: "he's going to the dogs."

But now 'tis threatened that a dog should win
  A newer culture and a swifter pace
By taking to the whisky and the gin,
  That he may wax more reckless in the race.
And we, who hitherto have been content
  With just a lap of water and a rub,
Will soon enough contract that human bent
  Of knocking off and going to the pub.

And then, who knows?  Some badly balanced pup,
  Weak-willed, and too intent on hectic joys,
Will learn too soon the way to liquor up
  And have a jolly evening with the boys.
And we shall say of such a one, in blame:
  "It's quite all right to have one new and then;
But he has overdone this drinkning game.
  Poor dog," we'll say: "He's going to the men."