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In order to wow and woo Camille, the Comma Momma of Exceeding Hotness and generally impress her with my husbandly might and in so doing justify my “vacation” of domestic labor to my near-forsaken readers, I have decanted the essence of my manly maintenance tasks into a Digglet, a poetic formation much like sonnet, but without the tedious constraints of rhyme, meter, and narrative coherence.

For the romantically impaired who might otherwise miss this glorious contribution to literature entirely, this is it directly below:

Eighteen -The Number of My Love As Divided by the Mean Average Quantity of our Dependents Who Themselves Are Often Less Than Friendly.

Shall I compare thee to a Memphis day? Thou art less humid and lacking in highway incompetence.

Among the buzzing bugs of May, thy bidding I dost do with not any complaint thou couldest have heard inside the house.

Lend now thine compassionate eye to love’s recent labor of goodly effort and much dedication:

Startlingly Secure Railing - humor

Still Warm From Much Sweat and Manliness

Playfully Pigmented Doorframe

Ask Not For Whom the Bell Trolls in the Night, Lest You Be Subpoenaed For That Knowledge.

(Nice Paintjob, though)

Unfortunately Unfinished Step-humor

Still Fathoming My Feverish Imaginations For A Way To Cut A Piece To Fit This Gap Without Losing Any Of The Fingers Of Which I Have Become So Accustomed.

And think not of love’s less recent labors lest thou loseth the entire mood I have striven to engender in thy heart-like place:

The Ominous and Often Odiferous Offsrping of Doom

Forsooth, though they be never cute again as back in yonder day, before many seasons they too shall know the cry of the midnight diaper and the vomitation of ceaseless dairy consistency.

-Your Man