The Ballad of Pierre, the Sausage Dog

In a quaint little town by the river’s bend,
Lived Pierre the dachshund, a noble friend.
His body was long, his legs were low,
A baguette on paws, with a charming show.

"Mon dieu," he’d sigh, with a wistful air,
As he sniffed at the breeze, so debonair.
His beret tilted, his scarf askew,
He strutted with flair, as French dogs do.

The cats would whisper, "Look at that chap!
So short, so stout, like a wine cork cap!"
But Pierre, unbothered, would give a glance,
And bark, “You lack my savoir-faire stance.”

At dinner, he’d feast on pâté and cheese,
And dream of Paris, beneath the trees.
But when his humans tossed him a bone,
He’d fetch it with pride, then nap on his throne.

Oh Pierre, in your mid-age glory,
Your sausage-shaped life tells quite the story.
A Frenchman at heart, with a bark so bold,
You prove even small dogs have hearts of gold.