REVELATION
Forsooth! What manner of message is this?
Could it be you take the piss?
But nay, tarry a while.
As in art, it mayn’t be piss but bile,
And who is to know. As the bubbles rise
In piss the seer oft espies,
If his mind is open and immersed
And in the ancient arts well versed,
The sacred number, forty-two
(He even sees it in doggy-doo,
Reading messages in the shape,
Texture and bits of last night’s cake).
Forgive me, though, and hold again -
Perhaps this experience is common to men.
(Women too, though less inclined
To adventures of the inebriate kind.)
Of ignorant, uneducated folk I’ve heard,
Who would never have read of divining by turd,
And would certainly have no certification
In the ancient art of divination
Who, upon returning from the Pub
Then throwing up into the tub,
Contemplating all that chunder
Suddenly exclaim in wonder
The awesome, pre-cognitive cry -
“Hell, I’m really going to die!”
So of course GooRoo, in view of all that, I’m prepared to believe that you really did discover a sacred manuscript on a dunny wall in