The Pond

On summer days I'm rather fond,

Of looking at my garden pond.

Of watching life beneath the water,

Wondering whether or not I ought to,

Just get rid of it.

Because was eaten by my dog,

The other day, a little frog.

Poor Thor was sick for a week,

And so my vengeance I shall wreak,

Upon the horrid pit.

Into it I shall pour,

A little bleach, then a little more.

Till everything within is dead,

And over it lay concrete bed.

Aren't I a nasty git?