Right Down My Trousers

Right Down my Trousers

I cannot hit the toilet bowl.
I lack the requisite control.
I draw my sabre from its sheath
And splash the bathroom mat beneath,
Which once a brilliant shade of white
Grows yellow now and in the light
Looks ghastly, not to say impure
Despite my efforts to ensure
My tool emits a waterfall
That will not touch the sides at all,
But rather without effort flow
Sedately to the pool below
That sits within the toilet bowl,
That mystic and unsullied goal
I fix my steady gaze upon
On every visit to the John.

My fingers fumble with my flies,
No towels or taps divert my eyes,
As carefully I whip it out
And line it up, but then the doubt
Starts preying on my anxious mind -
I know I'll spray the seat behind
And wet the carpet once, in flight,
As some sprays forward, some sprays right,
While still another jet drips down
And slowly turns my trainers brown.

I cannot hit the toilet bowl.
Somewhere my cock must have a hole.
Although it's smooth and sleek and straight
I've learned that it is tempting fate
To make assumptions that the stream
Of piss within will gently teem
In one smooth line as sleek and straight
As that almighty cock I hate
For dripping piss upon my shoes,
For every time it seems to choose
To let its golden orange spray
Shoot North and South and every way
Except the way the toilet's in.
Just once it ought to let me win

But still I miss the toilet bowl.
My shaking hand cannot cajole
The willy there between my legs
To take good aim, and though it begs
The thing to spare my mother's wrath,
The one who cleans the bog and bath,
The blessed thing just won't play ball.
I know that it is huge and all,
And it would take a giant's hand
To steady something quite as grand
And long; two hands just aren't enough
To make my fellow do its stuff
In gentle drips, not stormy streams.
That's my excuse, well, in my dreams.

I cannot hit the toilet bowl.
I've tried with all my heart and soul
To overcome this dreadful curse,
And what makes matters even worse
Is, having splattered everywhere,
No matter how much time and care
I take to see that every drop
Has left my bladder, I can't stop,
Despite three hours of jerks and shakes,
And all the extra mess that makes,
As willy wobbles back and front;
This foolish, fatalistic stunt
Can never do a thing about
That final drop that dribbles out
And wanders down along my thigh,
Across my knee, then trickles by
My shin into my socks to die,
The second that I zip my fly.

I cannot hit the toilet bowl,
The cistern, yes, but not the hole
In which a man is meant to piss;
A whole urinal I can miss
From half a yard at sober speed.
It's target practice that I need.
I've asked my friends, my friends just scoff.
They piss on target, I... piss off.