Some of my finest thoughts are conceived upon the bog.
Contemplating life around me as I excrete the morning log.
While carrying out the daily ablutions
Some major problems find solutions.
My colon disagrees with me, it really hates my diet,
Not as healthy as I used to be, I don't recommend you try it.
Plates of meat and the odd spicy curry
Means my ritual can not be hurried.
Much grunting and sphincter muscle action,
Tilting buttocks up a fraction.
Minutes pass and the stench increases
As the bowl fills up with steaming feces.
My family know what I'm like, but I still hate to admit,
That I've blocked the loo again with a triple barrelled shit.
Worse of all is yet to come,
I must fix what I have done.
A plunger would be great I'm told
But I make do with my Marigolds.
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