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.
When upon this stinky pot
A gasly pop rings out
Shattering musing and thought
As echoes reverbrate from my gastric shot.