This poem is a precursor to an opus I shall write on this topic.

As I sit on this throne,

Made of porcelain, white as bone

I think of what I could have been

Besides a prisoner stuck again

On this tidy bowl, arse to seat

My body full of angry heat

For my children have surely struck

And left me without a square to pluck

To wipe my bits and be set free

For the love of God, my children, replace the freaking TP