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!