MY SUNDAY 160.
(as close to poetry as I can get)
Here I am, tears running down my face.
Heartbroken or sad?
Have I been sprayed with mace?
These things don't make me hoot.
Just the smell of my dogs butt toots.
(as i write this my booboo is under my desk, passing wind that smells worse than sitting in the infield of a Nascar race when all the cars have bad catalytic converters, I mean, really. What does that dog eat)?