'Twas the morning of Christmas, and nobody stirred
But lying wait in the loo was a turd
A stocking in size that sat blocking the bog
Giving meaning anew to tradition's "Yule Log"

The children were unwrapping pressies in bed
When a voice from the bathroom quite plaintively said:
"Can I wee in the sink, please - I'll let run the tap
'Cause the loo's wholly blocked with one humungous crap"

Well, the child and its wail caused a bit of a titter
So we all crowded in to see what's in the shitter
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The smell that arose was quite high with ordure
It was pungent eye-watering, quite like a sewer
When our daddy peeped in and he swore.. "What is THAT?
Come on, guys.. own up. So, who was it who shat?

Then I spoke up quickly, as quick as could be
And I promised him honestly - it was not me
And my brothers and sisters protested as well
That it could not be THEY who created that smell

Now, Johnny, now Bobby, come on Mary-Lou
Hey, Zachary, Jeremy - could it be you?
Or Hamish, or Ermintrude, or you, José
Oh, dash it! And flush it - yes, flush it away

And although we tried so hard to flush down the dung
The log in the bog was stuck tight like a bung
And up to the bowl-top the level arose
Too late we found out where the overflow goes

And then with a sprinkling, this sour-scented spoor
Went running and splashing all over the floor
We looked out the bathroom: our mother stood there
As the dark, fetid water ran out down the stair

Her dressing-gown trailed and the hems all turned brown
And her face went bright red as she started to frown
She let rip with oh, such a verbal assault
"Now ****ing own up - you must tell me whose fault!"

We all started crying with tears of shame
And all still protesting we were not to blame
The heat of her rage made us all run and scatter
Trailing brown footprints of shit-splattered matter

Soon round the house you could tell where we'd been
With footprints in yellowish-brownish-blue-green
And from all around us the fetid smell rose
From the toilet, the carpets, our feet and our clothes

Our stomachs all churned, we tried hard not to barf
'Til somebody said "I guess... you gotta laugh
Then father stopped, and to all our surprise
He laughed, then we all laughed with tears in our eyes

And we laughed, and we laughed... and we all laughed some more
(Though we tried very hard NOT to roll on the floor)
And even Mum smiled, and then she said to Dad:
"I think it's the funniest Christmas we've had"

So mother went cleansing our feet of the goo
And father got down with the carpet shampoo
But I heard him exclaim, as he cleaned up the shite
'Father Christmas it was, who left "presents" that night'