I once knew a blind man, his name it was Jake.
His guide was no dog, but in fact was a snake.
A red-bellied black — his reptilian guide
Was six feet in length and was two inches wide.
Jake had it in harness and followed its trail,
And sometimes he’d give it a yank on the tail.
The snake never bit him, though fangs it would bare,
And hiss something like: ”I’m your master.” I swear!
He’d had a guide dog but the poor pooch had died
The day after Jake bought the snake — poor Jake cried.
The vet, he had said: “I suspect those two holes
In your guide dog’s neck, they were not made by moles.”
The snake played his cards right — he tended to cheat,
(Not easy when one has no hands, legs, or feet)
But managed to tempt Jake to give him a go
At guiding his footsteps — they started off slow
But soon got it right, and I’d see them most days,
As Jake trailed behind the snake’s serpentine ways.
The end to this tale, well I’m sorry, it’s sad,
(Although I suspect that that snake, he was bad)
The story was told by blind Jake at the wake:
One morning the pair of them, Jake and the snake,
Were walking (and slithering) slow through the fog.
Another blind man with a guide (not a dog)
Passed by them, and somehow the man’s guide broke loose —
No snake is a match for a hungry mongoose.
— D.N. O’Brien