In a dog's life, a year is really more like seven
And all too soon a canine will be chasing cars in doggie heaven
It seems to me, as we make our own few circles 'round the Sun
We get it backwards and our seven years go by like one
Dog years It's the season of the itch
Dog years With every scratch it reappears
In the dog days, people look to Sirius
Dogs cry for the moon, but these connections are mysterious
It seems to me, while it's true that every dog will have his Day
When all the bones are buried, there is barely time to go outside and play
Dog years It's the season of the itch
Dog years With every scratch it reappears
Dog years For every sad son of a bitch
Dog years With his tail between his ears
I'd rather be a tortoise from Galapagos, or a span of geological time
I'd rather be a tortoise from Galapagos, or a span of geological time
Than be living in these dog years, living in these dog years
In a dog's brain a constant buzz of low level static
One sniff at the hydrant and the answer is automatic
It seems to me, as well make our own few circles 'round the block
We've lost our senses, for the higher level static of talk
Dog years For every sad son of a bitch
Dog years With his tail between his ears
In these dog years, oooo!
In these dog years, oouu!
In these dog years, oooo!
In these dog years, oouu! Oooo!
In these dog years, oooo!