There’s Dog Poop On The Chair

You said: ah, Jack, I like your hair,
Your great huge biceps swells and swells,
Your breath with peppermint so smells….
Not: Hey, Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair!

But no! You had to be so debonair,
Why was it all the live long day,
You could not then deign once to say:
Hey, Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair!

Is it, then, so freakin’ rare
To watch where it is the place we sit?
Be it soup or sticking spit
To say, there’s dog poop on the chair?

And, pray, I am not doctrinaire,
Or lacking in all human charm,
To give the freakin’ loud alarm
Of: Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair!

Now, if I were in Iceland bare
As the day that I was born,
You bet I’d get on the horn,
And shout: Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair!

Now, what if a freakin’ bat got in your hair?
A bat, for sure’s no freakin’ dove,
So why did you not, my only love,
Say: Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair?

So innocent and unaware,
I bent my butt and then I sat
Into that filthy stinking scat,
Heard not: Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair?

And all the while old Jaiver,
Sat smiling with his sandwich so,
Pretending that he did not know
Of dog poop in that freakin’ chair!

I’ve even read that Moliere
Would not such trash in France produce,
But hope to turn this sentence loose:
Hey, Jack, there’s dog poop on the chair!

Alas, forsooth, I know despair,
I never had a freakin’ chance,
Nor did my pair of banlon pants
That sat in dog poop on the chair…