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A Sticky End
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....and so it begins
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Well, one brave lad named Galahad had never had a gal.
Not a Kathy or a Justine, not a Karen, Clare or Val
"Oh woe is me, I'll never be a proper man!", he'd wail
(Perpetually virginal and literal epic fail)
So he rode forth one fatal day, with bottles of this potion
So he rode forth one fatal day, with bottles of this potion
(sorry, unintended repeat there...)
He sold it countrywide; it needed no promotion
[Rosie] Might he have marketed it instead?
(Raak) Yeah, OK. Better rhythm.
He plied the folk from Kent to Stoke with samples of his brew
And, no mistake, left in his wake was plenty "How d'Ye Do"
The Potters and the Kentish Men found all their cares had flown
And not just that, it seemed that several other things had grown
For hops, it seemed, grew everywhere, even in his garden
From these he brewed some dreadful stuff and sent it to Bin Laden.
To his flat in Abbottabad the package was delivered
It smelled like the bottom of a goat and feverishly quivered.
Bin Laden, macho to a fault, knocked it back in one
The effects were pretty instant, and sent him "on the run"
Up in the sky, where the CIA had their satellite
The 'strains' of his discomfort were transmitted, byte by byte.
We have him, he has got the shakes, the spies said with much glee
So they targeted a drone on his outside WC.
With a bang and roar, it was no more, his kharzi now was gone
There now was nowhere he could place his ample sit-upon
He shook his fist and made a list of revenges slow, but sweet,
Such as strangling Dubya with a cast-off winding sheet
But first of all, he could not stall; a lavvy he must find
And preferably with paper, to wipe his large behind.
He knew of places he could go, but none were very secret
but he found one stocked with rocks and even with a free jet.
And in that jet was a toilet, where relief might well be found
(If only it was not ten thousand feet above the ground)
At such a height, it should be known, one's flatus is explosive
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