It was just a harmless little joke, it didn't wound or maim,
Though I have to say I'll never try the likes of it again.
Intending to jazz up the cook, I caught a joey 'roo
And threw it in to liven up the cook upon the loo.
The thunder-box had iron walls, that 'roo just bounced around,
And the yells and screams that rent the air were stomach splitting sounds.
The prank was soon forgotten till I ate some curried stew,
That the cook had laced with Epson Salts in payment for the 'roo.
Well it got my bowels a boiling, while tasting quite benign,
And had me rushing t'ward the loo in next to nothing time.
The pressure of the moment made me walk a little tight,
While I tried to act unhurried just to curb the cooks delight.
I could have sworn I felt a seepage, the prelude to a flood,
My teeth were clenched in grim resolve, my pores were sweating blood.
My legs were twined like rubber-vine, my brow was cold and damp,
My cheeks were gripped by rigor mortis, locked in fear and cramp.
The dictates of my posture meant a crabbing, shuffle gait,
And I prayed, with progress slowing, that I wouldn't be too late.
When I finally reached the dunny there were horrors still in store,
the cook, with wretched humour, had jammed the bloody door.
The neatly driven three inch spikes skewed in through door and frame,
Were calculated to inflict more punishment and shame.
Well I didn't even hesitate, I wouldn't be denied,
I put my shoulder to the boards, relief was just inside.
No twisted mind would do me in, I'd beat the bugger yet,
And I prayed the trickle down my leg was nothing more than sweat.
Before my desperate onslaught, the timber burst apart,
To reveal a waiting wooden throne, a sight to warm my heart.
But the cooks revenge compounded, it wasn't just or right,
The vindictive little vixen had screwed the lid down tight.
Written by a Mark Kleinschmidt
Though I have to say I'll never try the likes of it again.
Intending to jazz up the cook, I caught a joey 'roo
And threw it in to liven up the cook upon the loo.
The thunder-box had iron walls, that 'roo just bounced around,
And the yells and screams that rent the air were stomach splitting sounds.
The prank was soon forgotten till I ate some curried stew,
That the cook had laced with Epson Salts in payment for the 'roo.
Well it got my bowels a boiling, while tasting quite benign,
And had me rushing t'ward the loo in next to nothing time.
The pressure of the moment made me walk a little tight,
While I tried to act unhurried just to curb the cooks delight.
I could have sworn I felt a seepage, the prelude to a flood,
My teeth were clenched in grim resolve, my pores were sweating blood.
My legs were twined like rubber-vine, my brow was cold and damp,
My cheeks were gripped by rigor mortis, locked in fear and cramp.
The dictates of my posture meant a crabbing, shuffle gait,
And I prayed, with progress slowing, that I wouldn't be too late.
When I finally reached the dunny there were horrors still in store,
the cook, with wretched humour, had jammed the bloody door.
The neatly driven three inch spikes skewed in through door and frame,
Were calculated to inflict more punishment and shame.
Well I didn't even hesitate, I wouldn't be denied,
I put my shoulder to the boards, relief was just inside.
No twisted mind would do me in, I'd beat the bugger yet,
And I prayed the trickle down my leg was nothing more than sweat.
Before my desperate onslaught, the timber burst apart,
To reveal a waiting wooden throne, a sight to warm my heart.
But the cooks revenge compounded, it wasn't just or right,
The vindictive little vixen had screwed the lid down tight.
Written by a Mark Kleinschmidt
