POEMS ‘BOUT PRANKS

POEM #1
Bag of flaming doggy do
In the middle of the living room floor
Who might have left it here
Is it for the king from St. Thomas Moore

Perhaps it’s Roger’s
finding the pubic hair in his cup
I hardly believe his hound dog Shane
Could have filled that brown bag up

Is it yours Marietta due to the baby
Which I indeed proudly gave you
Or have you found the letter J I left
When down there I shaved you

No matter with thermal gloves
I shall scoop it from where it rests
For when it comes to bags of flaming
Dog shit, doorsteps are the best