Thirty-one days past December,
there lingers the fracture from November.
Baby Daddy was in a mood,
threw out Miss Potti B
and her little brother too.
Slammed the door in their face,
nearly fractured the poor boy’s leg
all the while he was crying, ‘I am calling the police.’
Pothead’s door while covered in stains
remains off its frame.
O’ such shame.
Miss Potti B returned once more
forgave and regrets no more.
She carries on O’ such proud mother,
painting the sunken door with new paint.
Still, the skunky piss reeks like no other.