Well, I used to have a doggie and I called him Little Gomez,
‘Cause you see he was a Mexican Chihuahua.
There wasn’t much of him, but what there was was all cajones.
He really was a randy little fella’.

Big dogs, small dogs, it mattered not to him,
The canine equivalent of Errol Flynn.
At the drop of a sombrero he’d jump up and get stuck in,
Taking Gomez out for walkies was embarrassing.

I remember one day in the park his tally rose by four,
An enviable score he was amassing.
Two pleasing patient poodles and an Irish Labrador,
And a woman who just happened to be passin’.

I tried every way to curb his carnal appetite:
I kept him on a lead by day and locked him up at night,
I even put saltpeter in his doggie Meaty-Bites
But the only thing that might have worked was kryptonite.
The only thing that might have worked was kryptonite.

I recall the fatal day when he tried to consummate
A liason with a St. Bernard called Blodwin,
And although he was quite plainly fighting well above his weight
He didn’t let that minor detail daunt him.
He almost pulled it off — oh, what an acrobat!

But Broadwen got bored and down she sat!
They say that after making love you often feel quite flat;
I’m sure that Little Gomez would agree with that.
I’m sure that Little Gomez would agree with that.

So I buried Gomez in the park, his happy hunting ground,
A sad but fitting finale.
I had to dig a grave that was shallow, flat and round,
‘Cos he looked like a squashed tamale.

But I really missed my wee Chihuahua chum;
I went down to the pet shop to get another one.
I went in feeling happy but I came out feeling glum
‘Cos the man down at the pet shop loved corny puns.
The man down at the pet shop loved corny puns.

And he said,
“Yes, we have no Chihuahuas! We have no Chihuahuas today!
We’ve Alsatians, Dalmatians, the fruits of a flirtation,
‘tween a half-pint Pekingese and a toupee.
But, yes, we have no Chihuahuas!
We have no Chiuhuas toda-ay!”