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septic tank hell

Twentieth day with the septic tank
That’s brimming full with shit-soaked roots
It’s full of feh, it’s dark and dank
And smells real bad from yucky poots

We dug it up and found it fetid
In need of fixing, outflow broken
Our love for this is rather tepid
We shoveled much with curses spoken

So now we fix it P.D.Q.
And scoop the roots, such icky fun
We’ll lay the pipes and stick with glue
Then fill the ditch and call it done

Comments

Yeah, yeah-- it's doggerel. Endless emergencies here at the trailer park are taking up my time and soul. What I am doing is not interesting and I think endlessly about mortality. So I write doggerel (crappy, forced sounding poetry) to vent. Sorry. Also I have gotten complaints about my titles being in all caps (something I have done for the past fifty years), so I will stop that practice on this sight. Perhaps I can next post something more poetic involving topics other than mortality.

I kinda liked that you did it, cause I knew it was you.

As for mortality, I say wrestle with it and write about it. Write what's in your heart. That's where the good stuff is, and I suspect you'll move on from the topic sooner by engaging it then avoiding it. My two cents.

Doggerel has its uses. You could put it to music. Where would Dylan be without it. The greatest insights, words, essays and verse often come from the mundane.