Once upon a Sunday morning, while I slept in, only slightly snoring,
My dreams of boats with two stroke engines, and Victoria’s secrets galore,
Were rudely interrupted by sounds of crapping, most flatulent crapping,
As of some Beagle quietly mapping, mapping her placement of morning spoor.
My wife will clean it, I hoped, quietly she will sweep and mop up the floor.
I rolled over and continued to snore.
I still had small hopes to spoon, after all it was the middle of June,
This day is Fathers day and for me, poor me, it’s times four.
I listened for mopping, impatiently waiting, hoping for spit swapping,
Yet instead I heard waking, waking toddlers, treading through canine spoor.
“Oh those kids, those loud kids, (thanks to my potency), times four,
Mopping will last forevermore!”
Brilliant light then came streaming, accompanied by toddlers screaming,
Panicked, afraid, I hid myself and prayed, ‘please no more!’
My prayer unheard, I smelled the Beagle turd, as on they came beaming.
“Not today!“ I cried, “Go away!“, I lied, “I’m asleep, close my door!”
The smell increased, they smelled long deceased, these children coated in filthy spoor.
It’s a nightmare, I wept, only that and nothing more.
I’ll escape, I‘ll fish all day, I planned, and up I jumped naked and tanned,
I stiff armed a child, and leapt over something piled, nearly missed avoiding some spoor.
Quickly, I dressed, tired, angry, and sexually repressed,
Yet If I hurried quicker, I might slip slicker out the back door.
“Children move now! Please I am begging you! I implore!”
Still, on they came, covered in spoor.
Failing to sleep in, spoon, or fish, I resigned to question the children four,
“Where is your mother?, HEY DON’T HIT YOUR BROTHER! The store?
“AAARGH!“, cried I, look at this sty, you’re all covered with disgusting spoor,
I sank to my knees, and begged them please, tell me I’m dreaming.
Then I heard a rumbling, as if something rolling and tumbling,
And I knew, it was the garage door.
Scared more than ever, I thought only of heather, or escape to a distant shore.
I knew my only chance would be to dash when SHE stepped in through the door.
While it may be a day for Dad’s, she wouldn't tolerate my letting these tads,
Crash and boom, causing destruction and doom through piles of Beagle spoor.
I braced myself for what was to come, I just stood there quiet, deaf and dumb,
I stared afraid at the garage door.
The door opened and there my wife stood, her features were fierce, not good,
I could see she was accosted by the smells that wafted anywhere wafting could,
So in an effort to avoid the incredible yelling and additional smelling in store,
I dashed forward half naked, kissed her cheek and then stated
Honey, my dear, I love you, I’m off to go fishing, I’ll be thinking of you.
By the way, for my Fathers day, could you clean up this spoor.
As I began to drive away, there came a cry of a feminine sway, “NEVERMORE!
YOU’D BETTER ENJOY TODAY, FORE TOMORROW YOU’RE BLOOOD AND GORE!!”
I smiled and laughed, my eyes dancing, soon I would be casting these cares away.
When came a new rumbling, louder this time, causing my good mood crumbling,
I turned back, giving up fishing with pain, I could plainly see, it was going to rain.
“Honey I am back, to help you wash the spoor.” (forevermore)