In Animal House (by which title I call br A dwelling whose true name is not that at all) br There are dogs on the sofas and cats on the chairs; br Wherever you sit you get covered with hairs; br While your progress is marked by the yelps and miaous* br Of beasts you have walked on in Animal House. br br There’s an Old English bantam that welcomes the dawn, br There’s a cat that sings love-songs all night on the lawn, br There’s a bachelor turtle-dove making sweet moan br And a puppy lamenting because it’s alone; br The rowdiest tavern where topers carouse br Is a meeting of Quakers to Animal House. br br There’s a tortoise asleep in the strawberry bed br (They say it’s asleep but it smells a bit dead); br There are rabbits — they tell me they pluck them alive — br And ferrets in hutches and bees in a hive, br And goats, male and female, that merrily browse br On the stockings they hang out at Animal House. br br There’s a little green parrot like old Uncle Ned br Without any feathers on the top of its head, br He’s eighty years old and he’s just laid an egg; br There’s a toad and a newt and a thrush with one leg, br A hedgehog, an owl and a Japanese mouse, br But . . . people are nowhere at Animal House.