Po-E-Tree

In a glassine meadow, fairly near a plywood tree,

There sat a grizzled old man on a porcelain pot,

Grunting, groaning and looking straight at me.

‘Twas fair weather in the dung heap to be sure,

Dung beetle sang his crusty song so very pure,

The flashing neon butterfly flying oh so slow,

Screaming as it was eaten by a passing crow.

Too much to see, too much to be,

An ugly relative trying to get a glimpse of me,

Dangling by one foot from the limb of a tree,

Gross weathered skin, what a sight to see!

Too much overhanging ass upon the grocery cart,

The pristine diva with a scowling face and a ferocious fart.

‘Tis all to much for me,

Too much to be and see.

Tee Hee, Tee Hee!