'Ode to Charmin'

Dear Mr. Whipples, I owe so much gratitude. As I wipe my butt, On your soft miles of latitude. Your fat, little cheeks, Remind me of ass. I write this ode, Without an ounce of class. You sit by the throne, Where you are often prone, To run out, On your cardboard cone. And I run to the closet, Where you are stored. Naked butt, Shit adorned. There you are, My beacon of salvation. Light at the end of the tunnel, My eternal damnation. My forever lover, My worst enemy. When I fear I can't afford you, When I'm without a penny. But I scrape it together, Like I scrape my back. To feel your softness, Between my tender crack. Because if it wasn't for you, One could only imagine. Not having Charmin, Or it's sweetest invention. Cause leaves and newspapers, Are tough on my behind. When I'm so used to kindness, Of your softness I find. I am forever indebted, To the kindness of strangers. Who wipe my touche, Of fecal dangers. So thank you Whipples, From the bottom of my heart. I know you care, Right where I fart. You are a kind and gentle soul, As I lovingly sit, On the toilet bowl. You are forever owed, As I sing this ode, I forever repay you, As I drop a load. I flush your love, Down septic dreams, The remains of yesterday's dinner, Not yet to be seen. I await for our tango, Another day, You wipe all my troubles away. I love you more, Than other men, And I promise you.... Not to squeeze the Charmin. Written November 8th, 2001 © on Nov 07 2001 11:55 PM PST   0 • 14