Robert J. Dutton

Robert J. Dutton

Robert J. Dutton, a nice little boy
For both his folks, a true pride and joy
He’s kind and helpful in all manner of chores
He does all the dishes and oils creaky doors

But young Robbie Dutton has one little flaw
So minor it’s hardly worth mentioning at all
Despite bribes and threats and forecasts of doom
Robert J. Dutton just won’t clean his room

As days and weeks and years passed by
Robert J. Dutton—this wonderful guy
Began to emit an unhealthy aroma
One kid who smelled it went into a coma

The source of this odor, of course, is his room
I’ll attempt to describe it with minimal gloom:
It’s fusty and musty and dusty and dank
Kids in Australia complain ’bout the stank

The haphazard pile of waste on the shelf
Could only be seen by a junkman as pelf
Green grimy grunge covers the floor
It oozed ‘cross the room and spilt out the door

The garbage and junk and offal and rubble
And gunk and debris are a great source of trouble
The litter and rubbish and refuse and trash
Threaten to cause the walls to collapse

Beneath it all (this hurts to explain!)
Are twelve frozen meals—or at least their remains
The walls are caked with much muck and mire
The strong methane fumes are a real risk of fire

When finally the neighbors couldn’t take any more
They called the police who didn’t wish to explore
The cavern of filth at the end of the hall
So Officer Murphy decided to call

Federal agents, all the great masters
Of famines and floods and natural disasters
Who red-tagged the house they would not dare enter
That haven of crud was smut’s epicenter

The room was declared off limits to all
The army reserve has been placed on call
The Duttons, of course, have all been sent packing
For raising a boy whose neatness was lacking

by Richard W. Bray

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