Another poem for my Grandson Tate. Eventually, I will illustrate all of these.
Molly, the bulldog, sleeps under my bed.
The smell of her farts is something I dread.
They’re inky and stinky, fluffy and foggy.
Why such a stench from my sweet little doggy?
Pea green clouds of Molly rise to the ceiling.
Blow out the window, neighbors start squealing.
What must I do? Feed her perfume?
Plug her up with the stick of a broom?
Looks like tomorrow I have a task.
I’ll walk to the store and buy a gas mask.
Here’s the other poem I wrote for baby Tate. A Poem for my Grandson. “Eating Boogers” by Nana
Now I’m working on one about stinky feet. This is fun!