Biohazard…

Caution, beware & attention,

Entering the zone of this poem,

You have been automatically quarantined,

For the good of your mental health…

A walking biohazard I have been called,

Wrinkled underwear, dirty feet and all,

Anyone that comes in close,

Is bound to get a dose,

Of the roast beef farts, here I don’t joke…

So, evacuate your family,

Have your disk cleaned and pressed,

No, don’t you be feeling stressed,

Cause the cure for the above ailments,

Is just a nice review or comment,

And then you can go back to your life,

Your husband, kids or wife,

For the hazardous waste of this poem, in no taste,

Was cleaned up quite fast, yes it was done in haste…

               © ed – 3/9/04