The Return of the Limerick

Yes, once again:

Underneath pithy, dark fluffies
Sleep ratty-haired, rambling fat scruffies.
Near death they do live,
And I don't mean to be glib
But mostly they smell like wet puppies.

A boxer limped by on crutches
With black eyes and scowling red stitches.
With teeth gleaming like doves   
He threw down his gloves
And attempted to woo Britain's duchess

I dreamt of a terrible yak
Who's coat was bloodied and black.
He chased me for days
Yelping deep howling bays.
Methinks 'twas born from my welsh rabbit snack