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In The Gents
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I Want A Wee Wee
Mike
I want a wee wee
I'm dying for a piss I've never felt my bladder bursting Quite as bad as this. The strain is so unbearable I'm writhing in my chair I cross my legs and fidget And I grumble in dispair. Oh God I need a wee wee I must go to the toilet But here I stay to write this poem For you; I cannot spoil it. That's the standard you expect From a professional such as me. I put my readers way before My need to have a pee. Oh bloody hell, I've got to go I cannot bear this pain. But first I've got to end this poem Or everything's in vain. Wait a minute! No, that's wrong! I know what I'll do. I can finish off this poem When I'm back from the loo.... Excuse me......... .................... ....................... ................ .................. ........... ...................... ................ Aw fuck! I didn't make it. I went and wet my pants. I should have gone before I started. Now I missed my chance. And so this poem is pointless For I know one thing for sure. I've realised that I don't want A wee wee anymore. |
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Die Like Elvis
Mike
Oh, let me die like Elvis -
Sitting on the bog, A burger in my left hand And another in my gob, A Tennessee fine bourbon Or a bottle of champagne, A cocktail of narcotics Coursing through my swollen veins. I wish to die like Elvis, Oh, it would be such a treat, My bum cheeks resting firmly On that Gracelands toilet seat, My penis dangling in the bowl Unhindered by erection, My great fat hairy arsehole Looking back on its reflection. I've got to die like Elvis. It's the only way to go, Not like old Abe Lincoln Who got shot while at the show, Not like Jesus Christ our lord Who bled upon the cross, And not like Robert Maxwell 'Bout whom no one gave a toss. Only Elvis knew the way to Exit from his stage, 'Midst golden taps and porcelain, Not khaki, puce or beige. We all should die like Elvis In style and elogence. If I cannot die like Elvis then I'll cark it in the Gents. |
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Over-Helpful Washroom Attendant
Mike
Please don't switch the taps on,
Don't pass me the soap, Let me get the paper towel myself; It's all I hope. I don't want any perfume To spray upon my skin, And sure as fuck I won't put money In your begging tin. Why don't you just fuck right off And leave me well alone? I may be drunk but I can use A toilet on my own. I only want to take a piss And wash my hands and go. I do not need a cunt like you To make the water flow. Don't be nice and gracious, And do not call me sir, And please don't be so cheerful. What you do is quite absurd. Your job is crap and pointless, So don't pretend you're happy, And do not treat me like a babe That needs a change of nappy. Right, that's it. I'm done. I'm off. I'll leave you to your duty. I don't care how much you get In your tin of booty. Just in future don't involve me In your sad career. I'm fucking off back to the bar now For another beer. |
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If anyone is interested in poetry on the subject of septic tanks, you'll find a few in here: spiny.com/septic/index2.html but none of them are as good as the one I've just submitted to them...
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Septic Tank
Mike
I walked along the riverbank
Joyfully as if I'd drank Some wine or played a fiendish prank Upon my adversary, Frank. When all at once, my heart it sank As I encountered something rank And though I don't wish to be frank I have to say it fucking stank. For lo, it was a septic tank And though its air was grim and dank My loathing of it quickly shrank And for its fumes I soon did thank. Now some may say that I'm a crank My monkey then I had to spank And so my todger I did yank And had a truly wondrous wank. |
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