Our halfbath is covered in scrawls.
Graffiti's all over its walls.
We ask every guest
To give it their best,
But please to write on 'em at alls.
There's lots of bright pens on the tank.
You'll read clever things while you wank.
A limerick or two
To read while you poo.
No fan tho' so sometimes it's rank.
The fungus that lives on the pipe
That's under the sink is quite ripe.
It's growing a face.
It may soon replace
Us all with an alien type.
I've tried to attack it with bleach.
It sees me and hides out of reach.
I've used poison sprays
And shot it with rays.
Oh help me King Fart «~* I beseech!
I can't seem to kill the damn stuff.
It's got little nodes that go puff
And stink up the house.
It smells of dead mouse.
Dear Lucy, do you know enough?
It'll soon be a fifty foot fungi.
I think before then I must run. I
Can't take the smell.
The bathroom is hell
And it seems to think it's a fun guy.
The Ty-D-Bowl guy gave up spice,
Can't fart worth a toot on just rice.
I gave up the fight
And finally last night,
Took Tiddy's explosive advice.
My house is in pieces today.
The mold's just a small spot of gray
Dead muck on the pipe.
But I will not gripe.
The house was a mess anyway.
No matter how bad it all seems,
It's rarely as bad as our dreams.
My freedom has doubled
And we are not troubled
By fungaloid takeover schemes.
©1999-2003 Karen Schirmer. All rights reserved.