His first pet was a brown and white hound,
No guiles in its eyes,
It was a friend, so he named it “Friend”,
He kept it on chains in the uncompleted building at home;
In Camara, Accra;
To hide his irresponsibility,

At fourteen, always not home,
At the wood shop, learning the trade,
His friend at home; lonely
Sometimes, he thought “it growling”,
Before he leaves; he fed it milk, rice water or coco,
It used to wag its tail,
Until it was crushed by mosquitoes,
Then it didn’t eat or drank,

Its eyes were sad,
He was sad! His pet was sick!
He also became sick at the wood shop,
The next day, his “Friend” died.
He cried!
He cried and told everybody,
But they didn’t take him serious,
He told “uncle Sam”,

He wanted to bury it behind the house,
Uncle Sam laughed and said;
“Throw the trash at the dumpsite”,
He shook his head but he did it,
His friend was away,
But it did remained in his heart till this day,

The way it played, the way it looked at him,
Without malice, without pretense,
Just a true friend,
Tho’ they didn’t speak the same language,
They were not of the same color,

But they were one,
None a master,
He thought “if only he was always around”,
It wouldn’t have spent all the time alone,
He would have been its lifeguard.