...cuz I was in a shitty mood.
Ladies and gents, now I'll tell you a tale
It will lighten your burden, if you observe the details
So hear of my visit - please pay some attention -
to the "Toilet Manufacturers' Annual Convention"
The shiny yellow walls looked almost divine
But the N and the U had (whoops) dropped off the sign
The exhibition hall was empty at first
When suddenly, attendees flushed in with a burst
The Guest of Honour was most certainly Brit
For when they served coffee, he threatened to quit
"I shan't drink this filth!", disgustedly said he,
"When all I asked for, was a pot-o'-tea!"
So they brought some tea quickly, and he was appeased
And the organizers, they heaved an air of release
"After all, we're family, like shishtersh and brothersh,
let'sh shit and enjoy!" slurred one to the other.
The evening began, dinner bowls passed around
I must say the flavour of the beans was profound
They were baked in France (it was the organizers' idea)
by the world renowned chef (from Loordes) called D'Arhea.
"Brethren, and Sistern" the speaker began,
(The organizers here noted this was according to plan)
"My name is Peter, friends call me Mr. P
And being among you, just fills me with glee.
In fact I'm so full, I must use the Room -
So just a quick pit stop, then we shall resume."
The speaker thus zipped off the stage in haste
Leaving the organizers slightly pale-faced.
You see, neither was good with the oral powers
One shlurred, the other confused doublews and arse.
"My fellow shitizens, we'll continue tonight
But let'sh have our raffle while P'sh out of shite
Now it'sh ten quid for the firsht one and five for more"
Said the first organizer, giving the second one the floor.
"Rhen you're done rith the tickets, re rill rork the machine
and if your number turns up, then rell, you rin!"
"Your prize", said he to the lady who'd won
"is a solid lead seat, in strength: number one!
Number two in looks, but in nothing is it third
It's so rery robust, that re call it the Sturd!"
While the winner was exclaiming how this was so great,
That her husband would never manage lifting that weight,
Mr P came back to join the crowd
Surrounding him, was a gaseous cloud
Just when it all had been going so super
Mr P, oh, that party pooper
Banished the convention, with what must
be only described as a guttural gust
What can I say? The crap hit the fan!
Men and women and animals, they ran
So quickly did the milling crowd depart
That P's stench could be called a piss-off-fart
Every year since then, in the month of July
To relieve that moment, I still sometimes try
The Annual Convention still goes on
Alhough Peter's member-ship's been withdrawn
The organizers occasionally write to me
"You're our next 'Gust of Honour' if you chose to be!"
Their profits are up, in spite of their oops
Well, the bottom line is that - everybody poops.