Consider the trash can, bichon frise,
you piss upon outside
There is no one to comfort him
No shelter from the elements (including yours)
No simple pleasure to relieve his toil.
Still, he sits in spite of this
Quietly laboring in his terrible office
taking in the waste of this world.
Keeping coffee cups from purgatory
once their fresh brewed glory is spent.
They come to him seeking an end.
And he delivers.
He is free in this. His fate is set.
Your insult is nothing.
What is your purpose bichon frise?