He’s a Mess

We never said that he was neat.
Not a claim that he was clean.
He’s a slob, that can’t be beat.
He’s the worst I’ve ever seen.

Half the food, he eats real good.
The other half, he likes to wear.
He’d wear it all, if, just, he could.
Perhaps that’s why we feed him bare.

In his chin, must be a hole.
Through it, all the food must drain.
Though he ate and cleaned his bowl.
On his face there’s half, remain.

Buried in a blob of food.
Sometimes I could leave him there.
He would only sit and brood.
Eventually he’d stench the air.

So after every feeding time.
I take him out and rinse him off.
I cut through all the grease and slime.
Then rinse him in the water trough.

After all he is my son.
And, surely, he is like no other.
He is only having fun.
He gets his manners from his mother.