Punching the door and greeting the morning sun
I walked to the mailbox, looking for some fun.
A bomb perhaps or maybe a box of anthrax.
So disappointed was I to open the steel thorax,
and find not but a bill or two with my own name.
So I turned and ran in search for someone to blame,
back to my house where the pistol awaited loaded.
But halfway back I heard the call from a voice so bloated,
tis the neighbor across the street with eyes alabaster.
Looking as though he could wield the mighty Excalibur,
shouting at me with glee “what say you Croc Dundee?”
Not me, not me, who could it be but me he sees?
Dancing and flailing his arms like a retarded aardvark,
swimming in the air as though chased by a shark.
“No comment!” I said as I skipped to my door,
my shoes kicked off and crashing to the floor.
Sleeping at the table, the wife with Cracker Jack.
“Don’t go outside,” I said, “Our neighbor smokes crack.”