NOTE: (This is what happens when a writer gets bored...)
The Raven,
defiled.
—(not) Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a mid-day dreary,
while I labored, weak and bleary,
I read a strange and curious roll of un-forgotten lore — (word-of-the-day TP)
With angst I prodded, nearly snapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at the bathroom door.
"‘Tis occupied," I started. "Stop tapping at the bathroom door —
Aggrieve me with nothing more!"
I read a strange and curious roll of un-forgotten lore — (word-of-the-day TP)
With angst I prodded, nearly snapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at the bathroom door.
"‘Tis occupied," I started. "Stop tapping at the bathroom door —
Aggrieve me with nothing more!"
How distinctly I remember, my
angry bowel that bleak December;
Standing… spasm! Leaking! ‘fore it wrought its contents on the floor.
Horrified I prayed for morrow; vainly I then propped the window
As the stench increased my sorrow – anguish on my fickle core!
For a rare and radiant maiden would never, never poop upon the floor!—
Shameless, blameless… nevermore.
Presently my stool grew harder; hesitated, then no longer,
"Sir," wailed I, " -or Madam, for your patience I implore;
But the fact is I was pooping, awfully, when you came a rapping,
So I blame you interrupting and your bloody tapping at the door,
That I was un-compacted when I did hear you" – here I opened wide the door;
Grudgingly, I looked at the floor.
Deep into the detritus peering, long we stood; me pondering, he leering,
Knowing what we’re seeing, no mortal had e’r done on a colleague’s floor;
Tho’ the silence was unbroken, I took his stillness as a token,
And the only word there spoken was his gasped indictment, "ON THE FLOOR?"
"Yes," I whispered, on an echoed sob did burble, "On the floor…" —
Ghastly, this, and so much more.
Back into the soiled chamber lurching, with the gut inside me burning,
As he retreated, feet tap-tapping, I sobbed, but somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I to God above, "this only happens at the Jersey Shore."
Let me think, then, what to do, with this ghastly refuse on the floor —
How to deal alone with the pile of revulsion on this floor?
‘Tis bad luck and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the door wide, when, with invective did I mutter,
"Bring me bleach and Ajax, if you want this shite-splashed room restored!"
Not a comforting gesture made she; nor a minute of pity or compassion for me;
With nasty mien did the lady, stare in horror at her defiled bathroom floor —
Perched upon her Jimmy Choos just outside her dung-filled bathroom’s door —
She lurched and gagged, away she tore.
Thus I sat engorged and guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the foul what fiery reek ‘n havoc had seared unto my lower sore;
This and that I sat divining, with unsteady unease reclining
As the commode tank labored burbling and the john thusly bloated o’er,
Oh offense! while they downstairs, about my shame were gloating o’er,
This too shall pass… ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the reek grew denser, perfumed with wholly unseen censure
Stung by the sound of foot-falls tinkling on the tufted floor.
"Shit!" I cried. "Why, God? Why smite me? By the devil, you hath done mightily!"
I needed respite — respite and distraction, from what lies behind this door;
I shall flee this Tupperware party, and forget this unseemliness on the floor!"
Quoth my conscience, "Like some common crack whore?"
"Stop it!" said I, "I’ll clean it, still, if someone brings me a shovel!"
Whether he or she sent, or whether tempest tossed a bucket against the door,
Desolate and daunted in this deserted lavatory I canted —
Dragged the filled bucket and mop inside on haunches—alone, I shut the door.
"Is there – is there bleach in this bitch? – tell me – tell me ‘fore I pour!"
Quoth my conscience, "OH, JUST POUR!"
"Mop it?" said I, "By odor defiled – mop I will, turd clods and deviled-swill!
But by that son-of-a-whore that bends above us – I’d rather it be blood and gore!"
Such surfeit, sorrow-laden exudation, sloshing, slipping, sliding, "Fuck me!"
Standing… spasm! Leaking! ‘fore it wrought its contents on the floor.
Horrified I prayed for morrow; vainly I then propped the window
As the stench increased my sorrow – anguish on my fickle core!
For a rare and radiant maiden would never, never poop upon the floor!—
Shameless, blameless… nevermore.
Presently my stool grew harder; hesitated, then no longer,
"Sir," wailed I, " -or Madam, for your patience I implore;
But the fact is I was pooping, awfully, when you came a rapping,
So I blame you interrupting and your bloody tapping at the door,
That I was un-compacted when I did hear you" – here I opened wide the door;
Grudgingly, I looked at the floor.
Deep into the detritus peering, long we stood; me pondering, he leering,
Knowing what we’re seeing, no mortal had e’r done on a colleague’s floor;
Tho’ the silence was unbroken, I took his stillness as a token,
And the only word there spoken was his gasped indictment, "ON THE FLOOR?"
"Yes," I whispered, on an echoed sob did burble, "On the floor…" —
Ghastly, this, and so much more.
Back into the soiled chamber lurching, with the gut inside me burning,
As he retreated, feet tap-tapping, I sobbed, but somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I to God above, "this only happens at the Jersey Shore."
Let me think, then, what to do, with this ghastly refuse on the floor —
How to deal alone with the pile of revulsion on this floor?
‘Tis bad luck and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the door wide, when, with invective did I mutter,
"Bring me bleach and Ajax, if you want this shite-splashed room restored!"
Not a comforting gesture made she; nor a minute of pity or compassion for me;
With nasty mien did the lady, stare in horror at her defiled bathroom floor —
Perched upon her Jimmy Choos just outside her dung-filled bathroom’s door —
She lurched and gagged, away she tore.
Thus I sat engorged and guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the foul what fiery reek ‘n havoc had seared unto my lower sore;
This and that I sat divining, with unsteady unease reclining
As the commode tank labored burbling and the john thusly bloated o’er,
Oh offense! while they downstairs, about my shame were gloating o’er,
This too shall pass… ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the reek grew denser, perfumed with wholly unseen censure
Stung by the sound of foot-falls tinkling on the tufted floor.
"Shit!" I cried. "Why, God? Why smite me? By the devil, you hath done mightily!"
I needed respite — respite and distraction, from what lies behind this door;
I shall flee this Tupperware party, and forget this unseemliness on the floor!"
Quoth my conscience, "Like some common crack whore?"
"Stop it!" said I, "I’ll clean it, still, if someone brings me a shovel!"
Whether he or she sent, or whether tempest tossed a bucket against the door,
Desolate and daunted in this deserted lavatory I canted —
Dragged the filled bucket and mop inside on haunches—alone, I shut the door.
"Is there – is there bleach in this bitch? – tell me – tell me ‘fore I pour!"
Quoth my conscience, "OH, JUST POUR!"
"Mop it?" said I, "By odor defiled – mop I will, turd clods and deviled-swill!
But by that son-of-a-whore that bends above us – I’d rather it be blood and gore!"
Such surfeit, sorrow-laden exudation, sloshing, slipping, sliding, "Fuck me!"
You shall not break this
sainted maiden with a mere fecal storm on the floor —
Scrape and squeegee with bare hands, I’ll attack this shit-storm that I alone bore.
Quoth she outside, "OPEN THIS DOOR!"
"Begone you who would pity me still, faux friend!" I shrieked, down-sliding —
And shit! - Get thee back into the pot and take the to the Plutonian shore!
"I’ll leave no brown plume as a token of that which lie polluted and now broken!
Leave my pitiful-ness unspoken! – quit the haranguing banging on the door!
Take a break from how you mock, and move thy form far from the door!"
Quoth my judgmental conscience, "Bloody, bloody bore."
And the woman, never flitting, still is fretting, still is fretting
On the spiky heels of Choo just outside her cunny poo-chamber door;
And tho’ I’ve now done all the cleaning of a demon’s that is teaming,
And the light o’er the commode now gleams unsoiled reflections on the floor;
My soul knew I’d ne’r surmount the shit embedded in the grout upon on the floor
It shall be lifted – nevermore!
Scrape and squeegee with bare hands, I’ll attack this shit-storm that I alone bore.
Quoth she outside, "OPEN THIS DOOR!"
"Begone you who would pity me still, faux friend!" I shrieked, down-sliding —
And shit! - Get thee back into the pot and take the to the Plutonian shore!
"I’ll leave no brown plume as a token of that which lie polluted and now broken!
Leave my pitiful-ness unspoken! – quit the haranguing banging on the door!
Take a break from how you mock, and move thy form far from the door!"
Quoth my judgmental conscience, "Bloody, bloody bore."
And the woman, never flitting, still is fretting, still is fretting
On the spiky heels of Choo just outside her cunny poo-chamber door;
And tho’ I’ve now done all the cleaning of a demon’s that is teaming,
And the light o’er the commode now gleams unsoiled reflections on the floor;
My soul knew I’d ne’r surmount the shit embedded in the grout upon on the floor
It shall be lifted – nevermore!
