My dog died today, went just after nine.
This poem is supposed to be on Malta,
The Knights Hospitaller of Valletta,
but my dog died today, just after nine,
so I can't write about stone built towers,
blue sea, white sand, strung out with fishing line,
those hillside vistas, meadow land flowers
'cause my dog died today, just after nine.
The vet came in and asked his name, “Ruben.”
Ruben, who used to steal bread with jam on
Ruben, who used to soar like a Falcon
Ruben, who had no legs left to stand on.
I'm sorry, not much Malta here. Next time,
'cause, Ruben died today, just after nine.