I see London.
I see France.
I see poopy underpants.
In my side yard.
By our meter.
They don't belong to me.
Nor to Peter.
I live in a bucolic little ole burb.
Finding pooped-in underwear?
That's mighty absurd.
Deadwood
I mentioned to Eldest the other night that I had a fairly wide open day Friday. Writer that he is, he wondered if I would perhaps like a wri...
-
I have asked my wife if I could be a “guest blogger” today. As most of you know, I have just had a triple bypass operation. In the grand sc...
-
As an infant, we have the power to induce love and tenderness in the toughest of men and women. As a young child, we have the power to soar ...
5 comments:
Definitely this is one of your more "interesting" poetic endeavors, Patty! One never knows what will inspire them to write! LOL
Ick. Ick, ick, ick. Who DOES that? (Great rhyme, though.)
I would never look at the meter reader without suspicion ever again.
Errrr...maybe someone was out walking her dog, and the dog pooped, and she didn't have a plastic bag along with which to scoop up the offending pile, so she then took off her own underwear and scooped up the dog poop...and then, suddenly, was struck by how odd and gross the whole situation was, so she dropped the undies and poop and ran home.
Screaming like.
EWWWWWW! Nasty!
Post a Comment