Does It Get Any Lower? The Ballad Of The Urinal Pube

 

Dropped, discarded, destitute

The lonely, lamenting, urinal pube.

In a concentrated stain of a puddle you brood

Your only​​ companion, a dissolving, dishevelled, mildly fragrant cube

 

Sitting, stewing and brewing, in residual piss, you cling to life for hours

Amidst the tireless, torrential tirade, of intermittent urine showers

Inconsequential and anonymous, you question your existence

As the piss falls harder now, you question your resistance

 

Shunned by a bollock!

You were never regarded

By something as aesthetically unappealing, you were not valued, but discarded

Rejected by a scrot, there is no greater shame

You slowly coil,​​ accept you fate, you're now a pissing game.

 

Each man shall come and drop his fly,

And with a twinkle of joy, in his boyish eye,

Will aim and direct his pungent piss

With a view to sending you, into the abyss

 

No purpose, no point, no value or worth

Slain​​ by a nobody, who now shakes his giggling girth.

You swirl to your crude fate; your humiliation is at its end

As you sullenly slip down the urinal bend.