The subterranean radar has me on its scope and me in the bath with my duck and some soap and any hope to escape is dashed by the washcloth which washes my ears and my father of many years says, 'it's for your own good or spuds start to grow in the ears where the washcloth never fears to go'
Dad was full of sayings like that.

As the plug is pulled out I catch sight of a sprout, I doubt father ever knew about them.