The stage was set, the field of men chosen,
The mighty throne of polish’d porcelain.
It stood so pure, a bowl of shimm’ring white :
Great Ramses would have praised the plumbéd sight.
Upon this throne the noble heroes sat:
Frasier the strong, Tristian the odd, Gord -- fat!
Great men of old have knelt in humble prayer
Once God almighty hath enthroned sat there
For seven days and seven bounteous nights
From hence Our Lord proclaimed “Let there be light!”
T’was on this throne we three chose to battle
Men shall squeal and bowels shall rattle!
Women will faint, and children will sob- cry!
As we fine three will drop in great supply
The products of our intestine loop
Each great man seeks to lay the golden poop
The first among us was noble Dillon.
His heart was pure and his stomach fill’n.
Upon the regal throne our Dillion sat.
He loaded his gut, and prepar’d to shat
We gathered round in anticipation
Will Horth rise, or fall in devastation?
We heard the sound of such a horrid fight.
As if Jupiter, had let loose his might.
Groaning, moaning, and swearing could be heard;
We kept ourselves in silence and observed,
A final cry of victory let out!
No other sound could echo like this shout.
We held still, thinking could the finish be?
The battle over, with the first of three?
Our hero emerged armoured in sweat .
He wept tears of joy, cheering fans he met.
Riley was suspicious, he checked the poop,
Then dashed back out, he sang “Stop! We’ve been doped!”
We all fell to silence, oh what treason.
Good Dillon hath lied, for what reason?
“It’s teeny, TINY, no bigger than a quarter!”
“Agast!”, “Oh woe!”, “how could he?”, “what Horror!”
Anger washed over, “He must be punished!
He who has lied, for he hath not won it.”
After the swirly, Great Riley stepped up,
Filled with the ammo of dinner last sup.
His heart was broken awashed with sorrow,
Lies sat on him like Kilimanjaro.
His grief was greater than any other man.
At site of him, angels wept till just sand
Was all that was left in their loving eyes.
Great Riley did mourn but he could not cry.
The wat’ry tears were flushed into his bowels,
They fountain out an amber flood most foul,
A waterfall of dark mahogany.
So fell our prophet, leader, prodigy
Cast into bleakness by his friend Dillon,
That treasonous, vile, rat, oh the villain.
We all sat silent, there was no hero.
Could it be that of the honoured three-Zero?
Our final fighter was light and breezy,
We prayed for triumph to our Stevie.
For he was our, King Author Penn dragon,
The man who ate beans and drank a flagon.
Steve strode in, his gut packed with vast power.
Again we sat still and waited for an hour.
Will Steve have the might to deliver us
From treason, and sorrow? Oh Gods he must!
We waited like children, with baited breath.
The door flung open, and what happened next;
Steve, like Ozymandias, did declare
“Look on my works ye mighty and despair!”
The people cheered and children danced in loops,
For the Lord hath laid almighty poop!
It stood on its own and rose from the bowl,
Like a ladder to heaven, brown and full.
Solid, like a monument to his name,
A tombstone for sorrow and for great shame!
So did end our story recounted full,
Of the greatest hero to use the bowl!
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