Free is he who bites the hand:

if this is true

Does this mean

There dogs that know freedom

With able mind and soul

that roam the streets

with bruises on their backs

from fighting its own breed

I wonder,

Is this freedom?

To be alone

Bobbing for scraps

to lay your scars on the cobblestone

Cold to the touch

and what

parallels dose this have_

to my life

what does the lice in his fur signify?

Why should It be me _

the one that bites?

While other’s skin

remain clean

within

the confines of their leash

Should I be a flea

and take,

from those,

with plenty to give

Become soft and drink to my fill

Only to be killed

with a simple flick of the wrist

Or the **SWISH!**of a strays paw

Who wishes to be pest anyway?

It seems to me

that the cost to be free

Is paid in blood

The lice and flee of the world

scurry along the backs

suckling on fine juices

while the free roam rabid

I guess they must be a dying breed