The gentle knock upon the door, so faint I scarcely heard it,
Gave notice of a timid soul now quaking in a crouch;
She wanted help but, nervous now, she knew not how to word it
Instead she stammered, "Sir, are you the nice one or the grouch?"

I peered beneath my lowered brows and wondered at her daring—
"Do I look nice to you?" I asked, and viewed her with disdain.
"N-no!" she said, with shaking voice, "You don't seem very caring;
You're old, and bald, and much too fat, and your beard has coffee stains."

"I guess that proves it then," I said. "What brings you to my doorway?
What can you want that makes you stand there, shivering with fright?"
"Please, sir," she said "I've lost my dog. He ran off down the roadway,
It's getting dark, and I'm afraid he won't get home tonight."

I thought about my childhood when my own dog once went missing
And said, "Of course I'll help you. Come, we'll go out in the car."
She sat beside me, fidgeting, with fear her breath came hissing,
As we combed the streets and footpaths where the trees and bushes are.

Then suddenly her eyes grew bright, her voice no longer fearful,
She cried. "He's there! I see him! Just beside that big brick wall.
Oh thank you so for finding him," she sounded much more cheerful,
"I really think that you must be the nice one after all."