Claiming Poetic License

I am Pat. Pat-I-am. Pat-the-exPat is who I am. I like the expat that I am.

But do you like a leaky pipe? Does it keep you up at night?

I do not like it, exPat-I-am. I would not like it, that's how I am.

Where would you like to have a leak? Would you like it, in the street?

I would not like it in my house.
I would not like it, nor would my spouse.
I do not like it at my feet, I do not like it in the street!
I do not like the noisy boys, who dig and scrape with noisy toys.
They dig and dig, all day long, but where they dig is always wrong.
The workers come, the workers go; the holes they dig, they grow and grow!

But would you like the leak if found? I bet you would, you would come 'round!

I would not like it here or there, I would not like it anywhere!
I would not like it large or small, I would not like it, one drop or all.
I do not want it near my plants, or by my stairs, or in my pants!
I do not want it in the yard, or close at hand, or very far.
The pipe still leaks under the ground, while hammers croon a jackin' sound.
The piles grow, the holes they deepen, the pipes they go on a-leakin'

Would you like the leak, if fixed? Surely that would do the trick?

I would like the leak, if fixed. Like it gone, and then not missed!
I would like the leaking stopp-ed, the stones reset, the plants re-potted,
I would like the piles gone, the holes filled in, the workers done.
I would say "gracias, adios"; the workers would dance and count their pesos.
I will throw a big fiesta, but first I will take a short siesta.
Closing my eyes, my heart did skip. . . did I just hear another drip?