In quiet moments, none can flee,
The call of nature’s destiny.
A humble jobby, small and round,
The porcelain chamber makes its sound.
From lavish feasts to simple fare,
We all must leave our offerings there.
A shared humanity, strange but true,
The act we all, in turn, must do.
The papers crisp, the flush profound,
The swirls of water spinning round.
And once it's done, a brief relief,
A jobby’s journey—oh, so brief!
Though seldom praised in verse or prose,
The jobby comes, the jobby goes.
So here’s a toast to what we leave,
A universal, sly reprieve.
G.P. Thomson
