BAD POETRY FOR YOU

My daughter is traveling to France.
I hope we've left nothing to chance...
She's disorganized,
And not worldly wise;
Her parents are crapping their pants.

I'll transport my darling young flower
To Portland - we'll leave in an hour.
She'll be there for Sunday,
Her group leaves on Monday;
On a jet airplane she will cower.

She doesn't like flying in planes.
When she gets there it's likely to rain.
It sure won't be funny:
She sure burns through her money...
It's fiscal good sense she disdains.

At least she'll be there with a group
To eat her frog legs and snail soup.
But my nerves are all jangled,
My stomach feels strangled...
So worried I think I will poop.

She'll only be gone for eight days
And I'm sure we will all be amazed:
She'll return from the east,
She will be in one piece,
She'll owe her friends money... we'll pay.

There once was a man from La Grande,
Who at an old urinal did stand.
The wall said, "I fear
The joke isn't here!
Look down, the joke's in your hand!"

Tonight I'll eat dinner with friends
At a place where the beer never ends
By the end of the night
I should be quite a sight;
And I'll wish I was wearing Depends.

And so, to you dear faithful few,
For two days I bid you adieu.
Tonight: drowning fears
In some pitchers of beers,
I'll be back sometime Monday. Whoo-hoo!