Poets Have Been Mysteriously Silent On The Subject of Urinal Cakes
Yesterday I baked a urinal cake
I didn't mean it (I thought I had to ----)
And I never thought they'd be worth a lot.
But everyone liked my cake and got psyched
That I'd made such food telling the truth's rude
(And would get me beat) So my weary feet
And I, in public washrooms, feeling sick
From the smells, are forced to bake more, of course.
Their hunger won't sate and so I must bake
More urinal treats, which is no mean feat
And then I pause to think: the gig needs a drink.
An idea comes, but I'm not that dumb
Or so I tell myself and yet I lie.