[My friend Steve and I wrote this late one night in college. Looking back on this, I suspect alcohol was involved.]

Viva La Sewage

Bubble, bubble, toilet trouble,
I sit among ceramic rubble.
I just sat down and only farted
when the john by pressure parted
and blew into a thousand bits
before I could relieve my shits.
A rat up through the pipeline crawled,
intent, it seems, to chew my balls,
until, down there among the muck,
he strayed too far and became stuck.
I pulled up my pants to grab an axe
and give that fucker forty whacks.
But how the waters they did strain!
They could not gurgle down the drain!
The seams did crack and start to pop;
I just knew I'd have to call the shop.
When suddenly, with a roar like thunder,
the porcelain did split asunder!
Shards flew where I once sat,
along with bloody bits of rat.
The blast left in my ears a tone
and left my john a stained war zone.
I knew I'd have to call the plumber,
and, man, this bill would be a bummer.
So if you hate clogs and toilet strewage,
remember the adage, "Viva la sewage!"

-- © 1992, W.A. Seaver.