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All Hallows Eve − oh Lord what a bore,
when fancy-dressed youngsters come knock at my door.
I think I'm an affable, quiet and sober man,
unlike young Nasher, my super-fit Dobermann.

Normally Nasher has Chum in his tum
but his once a year treat is some feral kid's bum.
He doesn't care how much they shriek or they swear−
it's mouthful for mouthful, he likes his rump rare.

Guarding his dog-chew he lies by the grate
and listens for laughter and clinking front gate.
Then, hey-ho, he's up, opportunity knocks,
expectant breath steaming the brass letter box.

Nasher gives up after eight hundred metres,
more than sufficient for most trick and treaters.