The trouble with the outdoors and me.
One fluffy marshmallow on a stick,
the flame will lick
until puss-brown or black,
squandered in a fire that devours my snack.
I wield my trusty can of bug spray about.
It smells without a doubt.
Guaranteed to repel any pest,
except bloodsucking skeeters that won't let me rest.
Rain pours down on our tented town.
I look up with a frown.
I've sprung a leak!
Better pick up my pack and camp next week!