Were I a...

Were I a toilet.

Were I a toilet, I’d like to be the filthiest, ricketiest Porta-Potty at a sweltering summertime multi-day outdoor music festival.  Triple-digit temperatures and high humidity would make for a thick, weighty, lingering stench that can be smelt long before one enters the malodorous synthetic sarcophagus I’ve become, and it seems to stick to the skin and roof of one’s mouth—and no amount of tonguing can temper the taste.  I’d be covered in, not only in urine and feces, but also in a colorful, pungent cocktail of alcohol and carnival food vomit—think stale-corn-dog-tini (my “eau du toilette”).  I would have a very slight, but acutely noticeable wobble as to literally scare the crap out of people inside who, for one terrifying moment, think I’m going to tip over and spill my putrid payload atop them.  My seat would be so loosely attached that it would slide around wildly when sat upon, as though the underside were slathered in butter, and would be permanently stained with a yellow, black, and brown tie-dye.  My “cargo” would nearly reach the brim, so splash-back is all but certain, with the occasional dude inadvertently dunking his junk in my spoils.  The only toilet paper I’d possess would be the thin film that resides, glued, onto the cardboard cylinder, and though there would be plenty of hand sanitiser, the dispenser would no longer function.  I’d be an attendees last resort, with some finding it preferable to do their duty (ha!...doodie) outside, having to wipe with the random used napkins flitting by in the occasional burning breeze.

This would be me, were I a toilet.

There Aren't Any Monsters

Child:
Mama, can I sleep in your room tonight?
The monsters in mine are a terrible fright.
They don’t let me sleep and they make scary sounds,
though I never have seen one, I KNOW they’re around.
Under bed, in closet, and in attic above,
scaring me nightly's the one thing they love.

Mother:
Sweet silly-goose, there is nothing to fear,
especially with mama and papa so near.
Now, listen intently, for I’ll make you see,
there's no reason that you shouldn’t sleep peacefully.

There aren't any monsters hiding under your bed,
the demons there only exist in your head.
Though monsters do sometimes come out in the night
to steal away children while tucked in bed tight.
They take them to taint them, then speed them to death,
and relish the moment they take their last breath.
But you’re safe as can be in your bedroom, alone:
as long as nobody breaks into our home.

There aren't any monsters in your closet, my sweet,
just the clothes that you wear and the shoes for your feet.
Though monsters do sometimes appear clutching books,
they scream as they judge and they throw dirty looks.
They hate to their core the once closeted people,
and pray for their end under sacrosanct steeple.
But worry not, darling, of those who spew hate:
they won't be a bother—you seem pretty straight.

There aren't any monsters in the attic, my dear,
the settling house is the noise that you hear.
Though monsters do sometimes descend from above,
destroying the people and places we love.
Whether winged from high up or sent from afar,
they rocket their malice to murder and mar.
But, as long as you stay in the U.S. of A.
and don't travel abroad, you should be okay.

So now that you see there aren’t monsters about,
I’ll tuck in you tightly and put the lights out.
Good night, my beloved—we’re right down the hall,
if somethings amiss, just give us a call.
We’ll fly to your aid, as swift as a bird,
assuming your screams through the pillow are heard.

Sweet dreams.