The Shits

Christ, I’ve got the fucking shits, 

I’ve really got the runs. 

My bowels, they move like Krakatoa 

Or twenty cannon guns. 

My ringpiece is as hot as hell 

And grips me like a spanner. 

I bet you it could fry an egg 

Or light up a havana. 

 

Oh, I could blame the vindaloo 

And I could blame the bhajis 

But true to say it’s me who ought to 

Answer all the charges. 

And as I burn 

I ought to learn 

But know I never will. 

For Friday night 

Will come again 

And I’ll eat that same swill. 

 

But for now 

I’ll shift around 

Uneasy in my seat. 

The toilet’s near 

My route is clear 

Should I need to retreat. 

So please don’t curse 

If in this verse 

I make a quick departure 

I’ll be back 

Minus my cak 

Unlike Jeffrey Archer. 

 

At least I am not feeling sick 

Or got a bad hangover. 

And if I take Imodium™ 

Then this thing will soon be over. 

In fact already I feel good, 

My arse now feels the way it should 

I think that I could walk okay 

And skip and jump and shout hooray 

I only feel the urge to fart 

Excuse me, it’s about to start. 

‘Pffffft,’ Hey, look what I can do! 

‘Shhplurt!’ Oh shit! I’ve followed through... 

Poetry

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