Bum Stripes

The sign said clearly not to sit,
but I was stubborn, I admit.
And so I sat, for just a bit
upon the green park bench.

It felt quite nice to just relax
amidst the ducks, among thier quacks,
but now there's lines upon my slacks
from mentioned green park bench.

The children at the bus stop peer,
and point at what they see as queer,
the zebra lines upon my rear,
green like the old park bench.

And when, at last, home I do come
with transfered stripes upon my bum,
what will I tell my angry mum
about the green park bench?

Perhaps the story I'll relate,
about the angry reprobate
whose vengeful brush I dodged too late
while sitting on park bench

will cause her angry heart to cool.
She'll think her boy is not a fool,
she'll call me precious, mommy's jewel,
accosted on the bench!

And then again, I must admit,
I probably won't derail her fit,
she'll yell and scream and cry and spit
about the green park bench.

You see, I truthfully must say,
this is the seventh time, today,
I've come back home looking this way,
from sitting on the bench.

I think I 'll rest, my fate delay,
agaisnt this fence along the way.
Oh, what's this sign? What does it say?
"Wet Paint"