Mr. Janitor-Editor, Please—

It's your good friend whose breath smells like cheese;
There's a thing which I must needs make mention:
I'm requesting a deadline extension.
Please, just give me till Tuesday, a.m.
And I'll have a great poem—a gem.

It's a one 'bout my cousin, Fat Phil—
He’s a woodchuck that's over the hill,
One who’s known far and wide for chicanery—
Absolute entertainery-feignery—
Whose predictions for Spring mostly blunder it.
('Stead of o'er the hill, wish he was under it.)

Well anyway, if he by happenstance
Chanced to not see his shadow and craphispants,
But instead be convinced that Spring's closer—
Notwithstanding March always says, "NO sir!"—
Then have I got the perfectest poem!
And of perfectest, I oughtta know 'em.

You remember last year’s silly verse?
Well, then…this one can’t be any worse.
Just like last year, I’ve fired up the grill;
If no shadow, though, Phil I won't kill
But instead, o'er the charcoal's hot glow,
I'll be cooking me barbecued crow.

I can see that your taste is allured
(For the poem, I mean, not the bird),
And that that’s what Sun readers are cravin’
(Just the poem, of course, not the raven).
Look—saliva now pours from your jowl!
(It’s the poem, I hope, not the fowl.)

So I’ll wait till my cousin’s been drugged
To the cold outside world, and been mugged
By each janitor-journalist loser
With a notepad and camera—like you, sir—
Who snap shots and get ready to pounce
On whatever he has to announce.

You’ll expect him to say something deep
(Like, “This year, better look ’fore you Leap”),
As though Phil would say something profound
(Shucks, he’s still thinkin’ pi r is round!),
Or that maybe he’ll say something weighty
(Like, “Next week, I expect to be eighty*”).

If the thing he announces makes plain
That in two weeks all snow turns to rain
(Which of course we all know is preposterous,
But’s what makes lying rodents so prosperous),
Then I’ll forward said po’m to you post-haste—
Not sure’f that or the crow’ll have the most-taste.

If instead he again sees his shadow
And’s completely bereft of bravadow,
Then I’ll send you another for sure,
Mr. Janitor-Editor, sir.
Wait! My perfectest poem is missin’!
Well…I s’pose you’ll just have to use this’n.

So Good-byes, adioses, and ciaos,
Most Sincereliest yours,
                                                   A. A. Mouse

*Do you know how ambigu’us that sounds, Phil?
Is that years? or degrees? or just pounds, Phil?!