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
