An Ode To The Question Of Why My New Top, Freshly Washed And Pegged On The Line All Day, Has Marks On It.

This is a little ditty I penned the other day after bringing in the washing.

I think it would be great accompanied by the ukulele or banjo; imagine a modern-day George Formby vibe.

Perhaps a dove crapped down as it winged by?

Or could an owl have pissed from way up high?

Might a crow have loosed its bowels,

Hit my Carhartt but missed the towels?

I think a bird shat from September’s pale blue sky.

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