"A serious load of crap," I said. "That stinks," he said.

Today I came home
and found not one, not two, not three, or four,
but FIVE piles of Dog doo just beyond the front door.
Poop, I say,
brown logs of non-floating crap,
My living room is the scene of a dog deposit attack.

What's this, you ask.
How can that be?
It can and it was accompanied by pee.
Pee, I say
in the form of ghastly-yellow-green
stain on the carpet beside my Christmas tree.

What beast, you ask, left the foul present for me?
A brute, a bear,
my black dog is guilty
That Damn Dog, I say.
Devil of a Lab,
I scolded him good and threw him out back.

And how did I fix this disaster more atrocious than none?
I realized my sweet hubby
was on his way home.
Poop, I said,
when he walked in the door.
Holy *)@# he said, and walked downstairs and found more.

Moral of the story,
is don't come home for lunch,
when your big black dog
has just crapped out a mountain of junk.