Sand is everywhere

Sometime during the trip Gary, Paul, and I began a conversation about sand and the simple pleasures of camping. I remember when my son came home from camp one year. He looked six inches taller. Then we washed his feet. I'm still finding sand in things from our trip. So, in honor of camping so many nights in the sand, I wrote this poem.

We camp in the sand, walk in the sand, talk in the sand,
And it's in my hair, in my nose, it's everywhere.
It's in my clothes, in my mouth, it's even North and South.
It's in my ears, and in my eyes, which really makes me sigh.
Sand is everywhere.

Sand is in my ham and in my spam,
So now it's in my teeth, which isn't really neat.
It's in the boat, in my totes, and in my coat, and on my floats.
It's in my shirt but I don't care, 'cause it's even in my underwear.
Sand is everywhere.

It's in my sleeping bag,
So at night I'm really sad.
It's in my cup, and on my fork,
which really makes me torqued.
It's on my plate, and in my eggs,
it's even on my legs.
Sand is everywhere.

It's in my shoes and in my socks,
It's in the water and the kitchen box.
It's on Jerry's head and even in his bed.
The only place it's not, according to the rumor,
is that dark place, in the groover.