Revenge of the Pooch

I’m picking up the poo

It’s what you have to do

When dog goes to the loo -

A smelly Number Two.

If I fail what is due -

This is certainly true –

Think of what might ensue

From leaving one clear clue

That told the rozzers who

Had not picked up that goo.

A large fine might accrue

When the judgement went through.

Even worse, someone, you

Might get poop on your shoe

One good sniff, golly, phew,

Try your best not to spew.

Shiny footwear, brand-new?

A lovely shade of blue?

If on your way to view

“The Taming of the Shrew”,

A passing daft old moo,

Who lives near Sutton Hoo,

Made a face, saying “Coo!

You trod in doggy-doo”,

You might well want to sue -

Make damages fall due,

Assuming that you knew

Who owned that cockapoo.

What a hullabaloo!

And so much ballyhoo!

I would certainly rue

The ensuing to-do.

My mate worked at the zoo -

On making his debut

He picked up all the poo

From bison, caribou,

The (Flanders-speak) gnu

And skipping kangaroo

(But not the cockatoo).

His reputation grew

And commendations flew.

But then he said adieu,

Farewell, then joined a queue

And flew off to Peru.

But more I must eschew,

Insulting your IQ

Is what I must not do.

No more lines? Just a few –

You see, it’s darned difficult to write only six syllables per line, not to mention the fact that I’m running out of rhymes

For “picking up the poo”.

© John Welford