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.