On a shelf above his bed,
Looking like a fountain,
Henry has what has become
A little tissue mountain.
Each tissue gets one wipe or blow
And then it joins the pile,
A mound that had been growing
For much more than just a while.
When asked if I could clean it up,
The answer I keep getting
Is an emphatic No; I guess
I'm aiding and abetting.
It isn't really gross because
There's not a lot of issue
Allowed to make its way upon
Each single 2-ply tissue.
And Henry laughs when I point out
His tissue mountain's growing,
An impish twinkle in his eye
Which he delights in showing.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment