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Twas the week before plugfest and all through the house,
The paint fumes have killed all as small as a mouse.
The sun may be shining or the sky full of snow,
but down in the basement there is no way to know.
The woodchips are knee deep, with more shapes to mull,
The lathe keeps on spinning, though the tools are too dull.
And wires and swivels are scattered around,
With the correct sized lips, nowhere to be found.
And the airbrush is clogged, from its cup to its tip,
and spits paint like a drunk, choking on a nip.
But there's no time to clean it, when you gotta be quick,
So you crank up the pressure and lay the paint thick.
The epoxy is pock marked and full of dust flecks,
but the damn things are for fishing so who gives a heck.
And your friends show they up, to "just say hello",
when you both know damn well, they come to plug ho.
And you wife is annoyed, alone in the bed,
While the epoxy gets laid and the spinner gets fed.
And so it goes at this time of year,
'Cause nothing else matters as plugfest gets near.
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