(I just finished writing this poem for our housemates. It’s about 3am and I’m going to bed. Please don’t judge my grammar or rhyming capabilities. And please also note that our poems are always a joke…though this one was written out of pain and misery)

Vomit, vomit everywhere but not a drop to drink

Spewed from a top bunk loft it couldn’t be too bad one might think.

But that thought would be wrong.

From top bunk mattress to the bottom bunk

not one, two, three, but six blankets now carry the distinct funk

A rocking chair, a folded pack ‘n play,

a chest of drawers, what else can we say?

Lots.

Between the box springs and all over his body,

under the bed, up the walls—oh, if only this were potty.

But it’s not.

It’s barf, barf-o-rama, barf on his pajama(s)

It smells of sweet curds rotten to hell

it looks of old spaghetti, the story of Easter it does tell

Did we mention it went up three different walls?

The final vomit is one of metaphor

A vomit of vocals a little girl had in store

Screaming and crying, her stomach does hurt

Take her to the ER? I’d rather eat dirt.

It’s now 3am and our bed’s full of kids

We’re headed to Motel six, please make them some crazy pancakes*

Thanks.

* Not really, but chances are slim that we’ll be praying with you right now.