I clench in my hand a fistful of poop.
It’s a warm and soft mushy goop.
The dog left me this awful brown gift.
I try my best not to inhale a whiff.
I must leave the grass clean and dung-free.
You don’t see humans going on shit-sprees.
But I wish I’d used the claw-shaped scoop.
Instead of my hand, holding this poop.
Lucky for me I’m wearing a plastic bag.
But in my hand, I feel the heat of dag.
I tie the knot and bin the turdly-treasure.
In this gruesome task, I take no pleasure.
Farewell, grotesque dog doo, who I barely knew…
So glad, in this bag, you cannot breakthrough.