(August 4th,1926 / New York City)

Plumbing (Or) The Taming Of The Spew

He called to his wife, sounding, oh so, bereft
“Water just spewed right out of the sink
I just turned the faucet a bit to the left
It’s not my fault, I really don’t think”

The wife replied, “you go to work. I’ll call the plumber”
“Which one? ”, The wife’s husband did ask
“Don’t worry”, she said, “I have his number
The plumber best fit for the task”

The husband then left, as his job did come first
And she quickly got on the phone
She called up this man, the man of her thirst
The plumber with love undertone

He’d been there before, when her pipes needed fixing
When he laid right under the sink
With a large dose of grease, he gave them a slicking
This plumber sure was in the pink

When her husband came home, the spewing had ceased
He found all the plumber’s work done
She never let on just how well she’d been greased
Or how plumbing could be so much fun

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Comments (1)

A plumbing poem? I'm sure, somewhere, some plumber-poet-lover is down on his knees, begging you to stop leaking the truth and not to make any further cracks. (Of course, in that position, there is always too much crack, anyway) . - chuck