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He woke up in the morning after wildest dreams,
and proceeded to perform an urgent duty.
As he fiddled to extract him from between pyjama seams,
he couldn't find a thing, where was that beauty?
Panicked now he started tearing at the striped, combed-cotton cloth
sleepy eyes, alerted, shocked, they started staring,
all they saw was a small structure, somewhat smaller than a moth
and he briefly wondered if they shrank from wearing.
So, he reasoned that by pissing things might yet turn out alright,
that the substance that was missing, might come back.
And he stood on tip-toes to enhance his average height
and he wondered whether he would have the knack
to deposit his hot liquid into the ceramic bowl
so he wouldn't make a bloody awful mess
but he couldn't manage pressure to get near this distant goal
thus he realised that more can sure be less.
Being very fond of oakwood he had just replaced the lid
with a beauty any bloke would proudly own and gladly sit,
for the time it took to wait there and to watch the morning news,
loved the feeling of his ass, bare, sat on oak and not on spruce.
There were no knots or nasty splinters,
and visual appearance was
a classic beauty, and in winters
it made you feel that all the flaws
about the act of defecation,
the time it took and then that smell,
was mitigated integration:
Compliance with one's Pawlov Bell.
In short, the daily dropp routine,
by some considered rather squalid,
had changed from what it once had been
through oaken lid of structure solid.
Was it the devil, act of God
that tipped the lid out of position?
No matter, but it sure is odd
when on the course to your collision
you find yourself without adoo.
So now it happened, lid was falling,
slow motion yes, but fast enough.
Attempted stalling-peeing-stalling,
but gravity won't give a stuff.
On impact, sad things were observed:
A splash of crimson blood, one spurt.
Was real justice truly served
when weight descended down to hurt
and maim and cut, decapitate
the fellow's pride and joy, though small.
As to his present mental state?
I cannot say, but, all in all
it was a tragic, sad disaster,
a bad event one can't predict.
Once on a time he called him 'Master',
today he knows, he's been de-dicked.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: beauty, sad, justice, fate, pride, today, time, joy, change, dream
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