A Story Of Balls

Pat was complaining about yet another storm.

Lately here that has been quite the norm.

My day was busy with picking on Cass.

She can sure be mean to my rhyming ass.

Then I heard them from out in the hall.

Damn it, they have come back after my ball.

They aren't getting it. No, sir. No friggin way.

I'll never let poop machines take it and play.

They skipped me and went to a big old bag.

That should have been yet another red flag.

For these are all mine. Each and every single one.

I don't care if I chew them and ruin your fun.

You just stick that bucket on your tiny head.

Then no one can understand what you just said.

I got most of them batted, but it was time to go.

That thing isn't petting me. Hell friggin no.

Pat should be here, but instead he was here.

That's a lot of fluffballs he feeds not so near.

Then he took in another view before coming back.

He complained more when stepping into our shack.

Then he helped them collect all of my hard work.

I spread them out and he picked them up like a jerk.

But I showed them when they went out for lunch.

I hid most of the balls that were in that bunch.

They looked and they looked and only found a few.

This one was pooped and slept right here in view.

The other was still going, however so slow.

He grabbed Pat's books and Uncle Pattie gave them a go.

Those poop machines are too short to give the report.

So upon high I sit retelling the story of my court.

Any interlopers stop on by there?

Do they come with balls to spare?

Take em and hide em is my advice.

My rhyming ass doesn't care if it's not so nice.