Pen in hand, I gaze upon the virgin, pristine Charmin scroll,
that awaits in unwritten silence upon this porcelain throne,
this gleaming, timeless sculpture of pure white China bone,
so here I sit so all alone, one meager, humble poet's soul.
Furrowed brow, suffering mental constipation
This is the trappings of the monomaniacs
Oh, What I would do for some mental Ex-lax
to loosen up cognitive operation!
Within this ceramic palace, seafoam green and oyster white,
my muse, the fragrance of Powder Room Glade,
and these echoing thoughts, I pray not fade,
for my soul is raptured in this mirrored light.