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It's Father's day today,
his wife, known everywhere
as Mother Wombat
reminded him, which was
he thought, a kind
and happy thing to do.
He stretched his hairy legs
and scratched, which is
of course a wombat habit,
scratching underbellies,
hairy folds around the crotch,
and scratching loosened up
the peristaltic moves
that would, with sound
initiate itself at once.
We do, my friends, you may
not know this, pay me mind,
lay cubes of turds upon
the roof, which keeps the flies,
all acid rain and objects
from the sky, outside,
the house that wombat built,
that's what the kids do say,
though God made every log,
and oversaw the hollowing,
the shaping of it all,
no logs are found with ease
that would be suitable,
to serve as toilet rooms,
for those occasions, scheduled
or by random moods decreed,
when what is in be blown
out to the world around.
Proud bunch these wombats are,
no other creature can,
no matter what (and they do try)
lay sigmoid eggs whose edges are
not round, but fair and square.
The lack of proper space,
of neat facilities for dumping waste
mandates a novel way to lay
each day, the spent and well digested,
and pleasant mass of coloured stuff,
up on the very roof that keeps the rain
and, well you know, the critters out.
In time this grows and grows, and grows
until the cold wind blows and shows,
the imminent arrival of the Fairy Snow,
each part of every wombat, and each toe
must be protected from the elements,
and here the cleverness of a unique design
reaps heavy benefits to all, (you like this line?) .
So many days of wombat poo, each day anew,
piled up to make the roof an insulated one,
it's rated R thirteen by industry and trade
and will not fall or slide (up to a ton)
unless a human comes and brings his sharpened spade.
Inside the log, the family sits on the bed,
a lichen blanket covers all and smiles abound
as Father Wombat climbs to see the sights
and add a bit of insulation, once again
then he returns and Mother says, turn off the lights.
Herbert Nehrlich
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