With apologies to Mr Poe



As I kneel, head bowed, puking,



as I choke and snort my sputum



croaking, coughing, retching, groaning,



on the bathroom floor,



I think, though brain is dizzy,



things Ive never thought before



Things Ive missed, though often spewing,



or somehow managed to ignore



While I lie bedraggled,



on the stinking cold hard floor.



Now with head a-throbbing,



oer the great white bowl Im bobbing,



Bobbing, throbbing, weaving, chucking,



surely there can be no more?



No more vomit I lay praying,



Jesus! save me now, and seal my maw



And send a team of maidens



to mop this stinking cold hard floor



And if you do, I promise,



on my honour, Nevermore!



But lo! my guts ill-fated,



and my heaves are unabated,



And now my thoughts turn back



to whence they were before,



As Im squirming, smacking, flopping,



like a spastic being ignored.



And no maidens do I hear,



not one wet-wipe does appear,



Nought but dread convulsions



on the stinking cold hard floor.



Tis curious, I wonder,



as I purge more sauce-filled chunder,



How the saucy slick of chunder,



appears, oh what a wonder!



As a likeness of myself



such as Ive never seen before



As a likeness of myself,



writhing on the cold hard floor



And the likeness set me thinking,



how my doping, not my drinking,



could result in such a stinking,



stinking on the cold hard floor.



And two things I did conclude,



Thank you, torrid interlude!



And thank you Gods, all praise to you,



for theres truth in floating spew.