I was on the toilet yesterday, as I often am (damn protein shakes), and since I was devoid of reading material, I was forced to scan the shiny interior of my aluminum confinement to pass the time. I found nothing out of the ordinary really. A chrome coat hanger on the back of the squeaky door, a barf bar (as I like to call them), to my left, a toilet paper dispenser, but when my eyes reached the right panel, I immediately knew that I was in for a treat.
On this day, I did not find the more common, and unthoughtful “Mike was here” cliché carved into the metal, or a phone number written with a sharpie in case I want a good time. There was no innocuous juvenile scribbling, or even some good old fashion graffiti. No, no, no. I knew that I wouldn’t be let down by public bathroom’s finest literary authors. The artwork upon which my gaze did fall, was nothing less than a quaint restroom poem. Oh how exciting, I thought, a fellow poet. (If enough of you show interest, I will gladly post some.) This particular poem read as follows:
Here I sit with a completely broken heart,
For 2 days I tried to shit, but alas, could only fart.
Now, I hang my head in defeat and shame,
While my poor ass lights the bathroom aflame.
So, upon this porcelain pot I stoop,
In the hopes that one day I’ll finally poop.
Wun Hung Low
An enthusiastic passerby retorted:
One hung low in your Momma’s mouth bitch!
Ah yes........... that’s more like it.