A Letter to Mr. Woolworth
I got this poem from the book Muddled Meanderings In An Outhouse #2 by Bob Ross. It was the fourth printing, March, 1976, pgs. 12 & 13. The author was anonymous.
Mr. Woolworth, I got a complaint
About one can of ten cent paint.
My wife she did buy from your your darn store -
She did once - but not no more.
You see last week the spring she come
And everything she's on the hum.
Do walls, do floors, do windows, too.
She clean like mad I tell you.
My wife she always clean and neat
She buy paint for toilet seat.
And one whole week we watch wit eye
But goshdarn paint she no get dry.
My wife she's short and kinda fat
Now you can see just where she sat.
She's got big ring around complete
Where she sat down on toilet seat.
I say to her, 'It serves you right
You try to be so doggone tight.'
That 10 cent paint she no darn good
She won't get dry on no darn wood.
My daughter she got ring around, too,
Where from the seat it soaked through.
For one whole week by gosh we wait
And now we all got constipate.
By dang we don't know what to do
We got to eat - she must come through.
My wife she cry and cry and cry
But goldarn paint she won't get dry.
My wife she got a Sis, Marie.
She lives all time in home with me.
Last night I look where she sat down
By gosh she, too, got ring around.
I try turpentine.
She howl like wolf, she lose her mind.
I'm scared like hell most all day -
The skin come off, but paint she stay.
I live long time but never see
A man what got so mad as me.
When I think about that paint
I get so mad I almost faint.
Now, Mr. Woolworth, I ask you
What in hell we gonna do?
For how can home be nice and neat
If paint no dry on toilet seat?
Back to Mind Scrap *L*.