Whether tis nobler in the behind to
suffer the squares and tubes of outrageous Charmin
Or to take arms against a sea of two-ply
And by wiping our ends then:
To wipe, to sleep; no more;
And by a swipe to reach the end
The butt-ache, and the thousand empty racks that tush is heir to?
Tis a consumption devoutly to be swished.
To wipe, to sleep, perchance to stream
Aye, there's the rub,
For in the virus of corona,
what reams may come.
When we have shuffled off this mortal tissue must give us pause
There's the disinfect that makes calamity of such long rolls
For who would bear the bowls and bidets of time
The supermarket's wrong, the stock man contumely
The pangs of despised bowelings, the truck's delay
The insolence of flushings and the toiletry that patients merit of the tissue takes
When he himself might his hygiene make with a bare bodkin?
Who would fart-ass bare to grunt and sweat under a weary movement
But that the dread of something after shitting
The undiscovered market shelf from whose bourn no shopper returns,
puzzles the will, and makes us rather bare those hinds we have,
than leave for others that we know the pot of.
Thus six-packs do make collectors of us all
And thus the native poo of Revolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of Scott and enterprises of great itch and torment with this regard their toilets turn awry and lose the name of traction
Soft you now, the fair Paraphernalia? Nymph, in thy Cottonelle be all my shits dismembered.