Mutt The Immortal

I should be producing a product for business class;
Instead, I'm crafting an ode to you,
who I saw as I walked out of 7-Eleven
with a St. Pauli Girl in a paper bag dress,
who squirmed as your tail wagged,
and looked mournfully at the leash that chained you to a telephone booth.
I rashly ignored the proverb of my father:
"If you sleep with dogs, you get fleas."
To the cold wind I tossed the commandment:
"Thou shalt not pet strange dogs."
Gently, I approached you,
making myself short
to help you see
that my tail was wagging, too.
With 1.6 Pints of Red Hook in my soul,
I petted you with Napoleonic grace;
You saw that I was friendly,
and proceeded to bathe my face.
I should have given you a sausage
but you see I'm a poet not a butcher.
Yet after the last telephone booth has passed from the globe,
people will still read "Mutt The Immortal."