Poetry in Motions

It's that time of year.  The last slushy dregs of 2009 pile up outside on the door step, and Christmas's long advent has been and gone.  Mince pies are past their sell-bys; a green hue as iridescent as a dragonfly's wing shimmers across the cut end of the ham, and all that's left in the tin of sweets is a meagre handful of half-bitten coffee creams and cracknel.

Yes.  It's the time of year when our thoughts turn inevitably towards the future and how we plan to deal with the constipation left over from Crimbo, a parting gift left by rich food and an activity level barely flickering above...

... persistently vegetative.

I don't know how the peristaltically sluggish cope over the festive season.  A quick sit down should be all it takes to wave goodbye to any guests overstaying their welcome, yet I know several people who prevaricate, who avoid the unpleasantness of confrontation by first browsing through the library they keep in the smallest room.  Listen up.  You should be trying to get rid off these hanger-ons, not encouraging them to linger by reading them a bedtime story.

Editions of Puzzle World, Practical Parenting,  Readers Digest, Viz, 1001 Funniest Toilet Jokes vie for space amongst the loo rolls and Toilet Duck; for hardened-core constipates there's the Lord of The Rings trilogy and Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (aka, Crap in Spades).   Books, magazines, newspaper supplements, Bettaware catalogues — all sprawling out across the toilet's hinterland, illegal immigrants camping around what is, after all, a place of work (you're there, are you not, to do a job?). 

Only humans could turn an essential bodily function into a leisure activity; another recreational must-have that's passed me by, like Go-Go Hamsters and dogging.

A couple of years ago a friend and I took the kidlets out bowling, then decided to treat them to a meal afterwards.  It was one of those 'child-friendly' places which insist on chips and crayons with everything.  I should have known better.

I took my friend's youngest to the loo, ushered her into a cubicle and waited...  and waited... and waited.  Knowing her parents to be in possession of work-shy intestines and figuring a hereditary element at play, I waited for 15 minutes outside the door.  What on earth was she doing in there? 

Then I heard a rustle.  That tiny unmistakable shushing sound a crayon makes when dragged earnestly across some paper by a four-year-old.

Oh, yes.  Too young to read, my friend's daughter had smuggled in her complimentary colouring set and was happily scribbling away while waiting for a postprandial splash.

The sins of the father and mother...

Still, it gave rise to this:

MADDY & THE POO

Maddy McCormack was a girl who

Took pen, pad and pencils to sit on the loo.

When asked by her mother from outside the door

"Maddy, my love, what's your...

...stationery for?"

Maddy said nothing but started to hum

As a tiny, scared voice came out of her bum.

"Help me, do help me," she heard the voice squeak.

“I'm not good at heights, I go woozy and weak,

And as for my swimming, I'm certain to drown...

D'you think you could find me a safer way down?"

So swinging her feet, Maddy poked out her tongue,

Licked the lead in her pencil and began to begun.

Now it may or not interest the reader in learning

That Poos aren't mere Twos, they have passionate yearnings

To live a good life just as best as they can,

And add up to more than a flash in the pan.

The ultimate dream a Poo hopes to reach

Is to swim with the dolphins and lie on a beach

Somewhere, lit by the sun as it sets,

Rolling in scum from industrial outlets,

Oblivious to surfers' grumbles and groans

As they sing to each other in rich baritones.

"How's this?!" cried Maddy and held up the page

On which a ladder was proudly displayed.

The Poo shook his head sadly and let out a sob, he

Said "What I asked was too big a jobby.

How can I, clearly limbless — the nature of dung —

Climb down a ladder made up of rungs?"

Once more Maddy fell to sketch a solution

While The Poo felt the pull of offshore pollution.

Far, far below in the sewery mire

Strains could be heard from a Poo smell-voice choir.

The song that they sang was a mournful refrain

That echoed a lonely Poo’s heartbreak and pain,

It flew up through the pipes where, high above,

It spoke to The Poo of deep intestinal love.

“They’re leaving without me,” anguished The Poo.

“The tide will be high in an hour or two

And’ll tug them away to a land bright and merry

To frolic and float ‘neath the cross-Channel ferry.”

With a cry of despair The Poo gave up hope,

Then, with a flourish, Maddy finished her…

As far as ropes went I have to attest

This must be, most definitely, one of the best.

Each end owned a tassel coloured-in green

With a squiggle of red on the bit in-between.

The whole thing was drawn with laudable taste

And just the right length to loop The Poo’s waist.

“I’ll lower you down to the water beneath,”

Maddy made clear as Poo gritted his teeth.

Secured with the rope he stood on the sphincter,

He looked at the bowl and tried not to think for

A moment at least of leaving a stain

Should his body collide with the hard porcelain.

Oh slowly, so slowly, Maddy let The Poo down

As he shivered and shook, looked a little less brown.

But an inch above water — gasp! Tragedy struck!

Maddy yanked and she pulled but The Poo was quite stuck!

So knowing The Poo would be too scared to jump

Maddy delivered a SPEC-TAC-U-LAR pump!

Rrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiippppppppppppppppppppppp!!!

The Poo shot into the loo and a pine-scented splash

Covered his head while he spluttered and thrashed.

But… would you believe it?

With no arms at all?

Soon The Poo mastered a passable crawl!

He called up to Maddy, a grin ear-to-ear,

“Why don’t you join me, it’s lovely in here!”

But a knock on the door knelled heavy and strong.

A voice cried out “Maddy, you’ve been far too long!”

 And stirred by the song of his faecally friends,

Poo summoned the courage to conquer the S-bend

And Maddy hopped down and smoothed out her dress,

Reached up on her tip-toes and …

… flushed with success!

THE END

(c) Chastity Flyte, illustrations El Hombre

May your festive constipation bring inspiration!