The Charmin Chronicles: A Cannonade of Spells

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.


Upon this, oh! my solitary throne,

Imaginative glances o'er tile not so sparkly white,

Sickly cracks and curious stains alight

Into twisted figures so familiarly unknown.


Mages, elves, and kings before mine eyes

Flash to life as I observe the scene

A birds-eye view of a not-so-sparkly clean

Tiled battlefield of epic size.


A cannonade of spells explodes,

As flourescent splashes of living hell,

And with the tolling of dreadful bell,

Came a tide of vampire bats and poison toads.


The End

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