Cutting the Monday morning bog.
It’s a mighty tough wooden log.
Like a lumberjack you heave.
To oust from your flesh sleeve.
And you sweat from the hard slog.
When you hear your log creaking.
You’ll know the opening is winking.
Your efforts are to be rewarded.
Even though it sounds sordid.
You may also smell the reeking.
This thick brown oak is unique.
Freshly cut it requires a technique.
Passed down from father to son.
Generations bake this chocolate bun.
And the foggy smell is antique.
When the log finally breaks free.
Even though you sigh with glee.
You must cry out "TIMBOG!"
To warn others of the brown smog.
So they’re safe from your turd tree.
When it hits the ground floor.
You’ll know the number score.
Cos that number is always true.
You’re forever cutting number two.
With axe sticking out your backdoor.
Like your father before you.
He wore the flannel shirt too.
Knocking out the logs like a champ.
Axe between his cheeks like a clamp.
And in his beard were specks of poo.