No one is as lazy as Mr. O-Louse.
You can just tell from the sight of his house.
The rotting garbage in the corner sure does stink
Or maybe it’s the moldy dishes in the sink.
The whole house is dark, except for one blub,
Even that light is getting kind of old.
The lock for the safe is still in the package,
And last trips clothes are still in his baggage.
His coffee table is still in its box,
Yet he still uses it to hold his forgotten clocks.
Piled on his nightstand are overdue bills,
Next to a host of empty bottles for his pills.
As for Mr. O-Louse himself:
He sits on the couch watching TV, nothing else.
His skin is white and blubbery from a lack of sun,
And his greasy, long hair is tied in a messy bun.
On the rare occasion when he gets up,
He wedges himself into the doorframe: Stuck.
So if you ever meet Mr. O-Louse,
Please, just please don’t go to his house.