As I sat down on the toilet, on that fateful Christmas Eve,
The Ship, she was a’ rumblin—A dire warning one should heed!
A feast prepared in goodness, by a loving matron wife,
Was curdling into horror, causing pain and fear and strife.
I simply couldn’t stop it, the tremors coming fast;
The nauseating noises coming coupled with some gas.
The canine was a keen one; she sensed the storm a brewin’;
She fled away at mighty speeds, yet no one went pursuin’.
The ham it was a oinkin’; the taters were a mashin’;
The casserole was green and slimy, while the corn, it was a thrashin.
The product was a trophy, one worthy of a master;
A frown so brown had not been seen in toilet, yard, nor pasture.
As the maestro took his mighty bow, the Charmin bears went chill;
They fled the scene with AngelSoft, leaving only Cottonelle.
The task it was a-gruesome—a mushy mound of shite;
Entrenched inside a mighty forest, gripped inside with might.
But this TP had courage. And swallow fear he did;
With Righty’s help, he folded up and dove into the shit.
His body was a-mangled, and cast into the toilet;
As he eyed the mighty stool he wonder’d, “how’d the mighty maestro coil it?”
The maestro looked upon his child, tears welled up in his eyes;
As he said farewell, a droplet felled, on his precious, precious prize.
The toilet gurgled loudly, the cogs they were a turnin’;
The mighty jets within the bowl, to the beast they were a churnin’.
The mighty poo, the king of kings, had met his great demise;
His royal crown, of golden corn, met ill with such short rise.
The King he was a-wounded; a soldier on the field;
As he left the battle, weary-bodied, his butthole now felt seared.
The gruesome stink remaining was reminder of those lost;
As with every great achievement, it comes always at a cost.