Happy Birthday, Dad!
It looks like I am continuing the Abbett tradition of birthday poetry. However, I have learned to keep expectations for birthday poetry low, lest I end up like the Mul-Fa, composing sycophantic sonnets for every person and pet he has ever met in his life. Of course, I expect no less for MY birthday (ahemMarch13ahemsendpresentsnow).
There once was a father named Jon
Whose feet were permanently wan.
He calls me to moan
That I should come home
To pick up poop off of the lawn.
Lots of birthday love from your scooper-wielding daughter!
posted by Liz A. @ 2:19 PM
1 comments
1 Comments:
Do you mean the poop at your place? I suggest that if he's not potty-trained by the time the wedding rolls around, you make him wear a diaper 24/7.
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