arrow_circle_left arrow_circle_up arrow_circle_right
A Sticky End
help
....and so it begins
In days of old, when nights were cold and gentlemen drank whisky
Some tales were told of tinctures sold to make a fellow frisky
The ladies set to tinkering with what went in the mix
They wanted to surprise their men (really just for kicks)
Now, one such brew, called "How d'Ye Do", was prized above all others
For making weak men unafraid but ruining their mothers
The brew was noxious, green, and burly
                                                                              and surely quite undrinkable
You might get some at Wetherspoons - elsewhere would be unthinkable
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
And any fallout that ensues is strangely quite erosive
But he didn't care if he caused any natural disasters
He thought they could be fixed with a mix of gauze and plasters
And also he'd forgotten a vital law of motion
Of Isaac Newton's axioms he simply had no notion.
So from a hidden pocket, he took a golf umbrella,
And he stuck it into a giant bowl of jella
He added creams to it, namely whipped and shaving
To most he must sound mad indeed, not to say raving.
And furthermore he added, from inside his secret bag,
A glitter-covered g-string and a dirty, oily rag.
He ate up the concoction with a loud and loathsome gulp
Like that emitted by a frog as it's squashed to a pulp.
And then, from out his innards came a most unusual sound
Something like an ice-cream van, doing its summer round
He thought, "that's strange, for beans I did not eat,"
"And what might this miasma be, now creeping round my seat?"
'Twas far too late, for vengeful Fate gave him what he deserved:
As the implications struck him, he was terribly unnerved
But would not yield so grabbed his shield and sallied forth to fight
But as he proceeded, his left leg didn't feel quite right
He then came notice a fissure near his thigh
He then came notice a fissure near his thigh
Several inches long, and a centimetre high
From out the cleft there trickled forth a dark and noisome issue
Which was left unstaunched although he used many a Kleenex tissue
The trickling liquid oozed and spread and noxious fumes arose
Which grabbed him by the throat, then crept right up his nose
His lungs were filled with poison gas
Then he spotted a buxom young lass
(allow me to join - thus preserving rhythm)
With lungs full filled with gas he then espied yon spotted lass
'Get me oxygen!' cried he 'And I will let you pass'
Three months later - help arrived but all was quiet and dead

Corpse'd bin laden on the ground the feet due west of head.

The End

Thank you Chalky!
Audience
shouts, screams, generally goes wild for Raak
Want to play? Online Crescenteering lives on at Discord