A raging tempest in a teapot

When our eldest moochacha

just a little girl,

she loved to Potschke

in the sand box,

and oh... how she

adored the company,

of other girls and boys

made maritime (merry time)

returning to safety, sans dry docks

of this papa, and

did shriek like flocks

as if inhabited by twittering creature

game targeting her parents trying

to relax, particularly yours truly

feigning "FAKE" surprise

as she "shocks,"

the mama and papa both

tuckered out and immobile,

and unresponsive as a

chip off the old block,

our playing 'possum doth

prompt outsmarting our guile

whereat, we unwittingly

become patients of "E.L. Doc

R. O. Harris", who applies

grubby fingers to induce smile

invariably tickling irrepressible

snickering at ad hoc

eventually cajoling us

to bite pretty

gritty kid with no denial,

how idyllic such moment

if only...we could put a lock

on the hands of time, especially when

same munchkin now

grown progeny surly spews bile,

and hurls verbal

black barbs chock a block

on a whim the missus felt

an impetuous whim to dial

zeroing, asper ice suspect

suicide bomber to knock

down, qua acrimony

the perceived suffering,

livid anger did cut deep essentially

severing home ties

offspring wanted to exile

herself predicated on

unpardonable hurt pock

marking indelibly impressionable

psyche, whose vile

leant outburst questioned,

why with intelligence of a rock

thine fecund wife, and me

back in '96 felt randy and virile,

thus bygone precious memories

incongruous did sock

sensitive being tapping out poem on

verge of tears with upside down smile!