I WANT TO PUKE

As I kneel, head bowed, puking,
as I choke and snort my sputum
croaking, coughing, retching, groaning, on the bathroom floor,
I think, though brain is dizzy,
things I've never thought before
Things I've missed, though often
spewing, or somehow managed to ignore
While I lie bedraggled,
on the stinking cold hard floor.

Now with head a-throbbing,
o'er the great white bowl I'm bobbing,
Bobbing, throbbing, weaving, chucking,
surely there can be no more?
No more vomit I lay praying,
Jesus! save me now, and seal my maw
And send a team of maidens
to mop this stinking cold hard floor
And if you do, I promise,
on my honour, Nevermore!

But lo! my gut's ill-fated,
and my heaves are unabated,
And now my thoughts turn back
to whence they were before,
As I'm squirming, smacking, flopping,
like a spastic being ignored.
And no maidens do I hear,
not one wet-wipe does appear,
Nought but dread convulsions
on the stinking cold hard floor.

Tis curious, I wonder,
as I purge more sauce-filled chunder,
How the saucy slick of chunder,
appears, oh what a wonder!
As a likeness of myself
such as I've never seen before
As a likeness of myself,
writhing on the cold hard floor

And the likeness set me thinking,
how my doping, not my drinking,
could result in such a stinking,
stinking on the cold hard floor.
And two things I did conclude,
"Thank you, torrid interlude!"
And thank you Gods, all praise to you,
for there's truth in floating spew.