Stopping by the Living Room
on My Way up to Bed
Whose turds these are I think I know.
He figured I would be too slow
To catch him defecating here
Instead of going in the snow.
My little dog must think it queer
To keep a plastic baggie near
And wrap each specimen I take
That nature would let disappear.
He gives his collar tags a shake
As if to say it’s no mistake
To leave a mound two inches deep
On carpet, for convenience’ sake.
My wife and kids insist we keep
This mutt who made the stinking heap
That I must scoop before I sleep,
That I must scoop before I sleep.