Dedication at Its Finest

artistic toilet paper

It seems appropriate that at the moment of my death I am thinking about words that rhyme with “phenomenon”. No final wish, no regrets—except perhaps the pasta that caused my impending doom—I just want to finish the birthday poem for my brother before I vacate my organs next.

Legomenon. Too similar.

I feel a little strange sitting in a stall for much longer than the women entering and departing the stall next to mine. What do they think I’m doing? Once in a while I sniff, so maybe they’ll think I’m in here crying, not singlehandedly fertilizing twenty acres of farmland. I just have to be careful when I sniff: It needs to be the ‘breath only’ kind of sniff, otherwise I might accidentally knock myself unconscious.

Marathon. Parthenon. Genghis Kahn. Ooh, does that count?

It actually doesn’t bother me all that much that I’m in here giving birth to a food baby. In between contractions I am able to think up more great words. It’s amazing what the mind can do when the body is incapacitated.

Whereupon. Leprechaun. Denouement. Ypsilon. Good, but how the crap would I use it?

Heh. Crap.

My legs have turned to rubber stumps by the time I deem it safe to stand. Hopefully I’ll have enough time to leave the public restroom and suffer in the privacy of my own apartment.

Silver lining, I finished the poem.

It’s such a great phenomenon
Of laughs and joy, and whereupon
There’s not a soul that’s woebegone—
The birthday of my brother Sean!

It rivals that of Ramadan,
Known even by THE Genghis Khan,
A holiday in Kazakhstan,
The birthday of my brother Sean!

They line up in an echelon,
A flock of gorgeous whistling swans.
While running half a marathon
Are athletes for my brother Sean!

He’ll climb up on a mastodon
And ride it to the Parthenon,
Where, shaking hands with leprechauns,
They’ll celebrate my brother Sean!

The party will go on and on,
A fact we all depend upon
As we could fill the Lake Huron
With party guests for Mister Sean.

Alas, we reach the denouement,
Although we want to carry on.
So as we sing an antiphon,
We’ll give our gifts to Mister Sean.

A novel by Ms. Gabaldon,
Some cards made into hexagons,
A gift I got from Amazon
Are presents for my brother Sean.

I do not mean to ramble on
To brag about my lexicon,
I simply want to build upon
The awesomeness of Mister Sean.

He’s someone you can count upon
To care about your goings-on
And help you out, then later on
He’ll joke with you, my brother Sean.

So from the mountains of Taiwan
To barren land Saskatchewan,
I’ll shout it ‘til the day is gone:
“Happy birthday, brother Sean!”