Spring Catwalk

Playing my pan flute,
tuning the stinky breeze,
wearing my hazmat suit.

Every hat will droop,
every bird will wheeze
when I play my pan flute

slipping through the poop—
dog poop, if you please—
wearing my hazmat suit—

skin, bone, and heart’s-blood soup.
Pet that pigeon, you’ll get fleas!
Just play your pan flute,

wield your pooper-scoop,
thank God for warm spring days,
and wear your hazmat suit!

Dance through the goop!

(My suit has knobby knees.)
Tootle on your pan flute!
Flaunt your hazmat suit!