This May Rub You Raw
Mortal man's stuck in the can
He can't get off the pot
He goes and goes, it never ends
Could be some kind of plot
A half-hour later he's still going
Poor posterior all rubbed raw
And now he's out of toilet paper
It must be Murphy's Law
He calls 911, says "Help me, please"
What's your emergency, bud
I'm held hostage; I've been seized
by an endless stream of crud
An ambulance, sir, will be there soon
But, operator, that's not the issue
I need at least a month's supply
of Charmin's softest tissue
Operator laughed so hard that she fell over
Wished him good luck, then she cried
If you don't get off that darn pot soon
Your end'll end up rawhide
Well, miracle of miracles, bless the Lord
The crud came to a screeching halt
And when our hero got off the pot
He smiled to himself, as he realized
~ The whole thing's this poet's fault
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
