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| Image courtesy of Pixabay.com |
How can I shout my thoughts to the world,
when trapped in my passage is something unfurled?
Christmas is over – that much is true,
so why can’t I shift, then, my arse off the loo?
Year’s not done – I must see the end –
so where is the bog roll that should be my friend?
With laughter, I rise – pants at my knees,
but a blast of cold air, alas, makes me sneeze.
How can I hobble – hunt down a roll –
my knees stuck together by poo with no soul?
The New Year is here – that much is true,
JUST CHUCK US SOME BOG ROLL, IF STUCK IN THE QUEUE!
Copyright owned by Jay Cool , December 2018
Inspired by Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poem, ‘The Year’. |
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 
How ladylike and refined!
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There's nothing ladylike about having to clean the bog either – and, yet, the task always seems to fall to us womenfolk!
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Difficult to imagine a situation where the task to be done and the IQ of the person available so perfectly match!
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