Now there’s a gap between the cushions on the couch
where my old man can at times be seen to crouch
his bottom in the air as arms rummage in despair
trying to find some treasure that may have made its way down there
At times I wonder if it’s worth it
attempting to keep the lounge nice
as every time I turn around my hubby’s up to his old vice
searching for some pennies, that he says will amount to pounds
with his head between the cushions and his knees upon the ground
I’d like for him to stop it
but his addiction is unstoppable
he never will give up
his problem isn’t droppable
Sometimes he discovers wotnots, that had been forgotten long ago
sweet wrappers, string and hippy laces in the color of indigo
when my mother comes to visit
I beg for him to give it a rest
but downward he plunges, through the gap with zest
My friends say that he needs help
but I know this isn’t so
because we tried to make him better
many years ago.