Quilted

Is your jacket quilted?

Your bog roll,

The same pattern?

Whilst your

Bright house derrière,

Does prepare,

On the golden throne

You’re sat on?

Pants by ankles, hoping

The golden retriever,

Doesn’t leave you,

Jilted on the John.

After you wipe your arse,

With paradise paper,

Just remember who

You’ve shat on.