The Garderobe

Invocation

Apollo strum your heavenly lyre
Send me some inspiring fire
Or better still the Muses nine
So that my poetry will rhyme.

But if you cannot spare the lot
I’ll make do with what you’ve got.
I rather not have Terpsichore
She needs a clear dance floor.

Erato would be really handy,
Her I’d buy a box of candy.
You can keep the other eight
Because my readers won’t wait.

If you won’t send the nine,
I’ll just lie and cry and whine.
…
…

You’ll grant my plea?
O praises be, now we’ll see
To what depths I can sink
In this chronicle of stink.

The Noble Garderobe

Garderobe of thee I sing;
Muses help my song to wing,
Flying from this wooden seat
Readers’ ears t’assoil or treat.

This garderobe displayed to view
Was built for the privileged few;
Not for folk like you and me,
Nor the jealous bourgeoisie.

To build one it is vital
To own both lands and title.
If you are a common chap
Use somewhere else to crap.

Retainers, both the short and tall
Do it in the corners of the hall.
To outside staff the hall is barred
They have to do it in the yard.

This song is all about the turd
You might think it quite absurd
But poets have to do their thing
And mine is crap. That I sing.

Watch it slither and slide
That helter-skelter ride
To land with a plop
At the end of the drop.

It adds to the heap
That never doth sleep
Watch it turn into ooze
The smell you can’t lose.

The flies and the stench
Help repel the French
Who’ll cross the Channel
To try their old flannel

On any girl who’d
Enjoy their ways rude.
She’ll say “Oui, maybe”
Then drench them with pee.

The smell we’ve endured
The French it deterred
We know that it works
No Frenchie here lurks.

The pile is immense
Last line of defence:
The French were last here?
T’was six hundred year.

But never mind, old chap,
I’ll just have a crap.
It kept off the Kaiser
He’s sadder and wiser.

As for that Hitler
Scared off by our shitter.
Now there’s the Euro –
Shit’ll keep our pound pure, O.

Crap and tell the story
Of England’s last glory.
We’ll keep our land virgin
By garderobes with turds in.

Now heaven forfend
Seems I’ve got to the end
To Apollo the paean:
Thanks, Muses, for peeing.