As I lay steaming in this womb-like tub –
perusing Conan Doyle, and getting high –
I contemplate existence as I scrub-
Wait – what was that? Did something brush my thigh?
Oh fuck, that’s frogspawn, what’s that doing here?
I must have noticed, when I ran this bath;
did I, disrobing, blithely persevere
and clamber in regardless? What a gaffe!
What other horrors lurk within this flotsam?
A stickleback, perhaps? or pigeon feathers?
What fears torment me, lying in the buff!
Stop – think about it logically, dear Watson –
more likely, that stuff bobbing next your nethers
is clumps of your own belly button fluff…