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