is surely not alone in calling sink plungers “pink slungers?” And my kids gave me a pink one for Christmas. But this poem has nothing to do with that . . .
This poem embodies the transmission of hard-won wisdom.
I dedicate this poem to my dear sister Jenny who was travelling the world as far as Kashmir and Peru long before I ever got farther than western Europe.
The dedication was for no other reason than that I wrote the first draft on her birthday.
the gobbet has accumulated
and putrefied faster than it dissipated.
If that sludge-plug could have been flushed in the stream,
it would be long gone, and the pipe would be clean.
don’t plunge with your plunger cup there,
for the cup will contain some proportion of air.
And that air will compress, then escape in the sludge,
like an impotent fart, with the blockage un-budged.
for a moment – and let us rewind.
Consider physical laws, and then we shall find
there’s a way we can use all that slime and the water
to assist in the clearance of blockage, dear daughter!
press down the cup on the end of the pole
so it’s quite flat on the bottom. No! Not over the hole.
slither the tool, in a slippery slide,
over the waste with a sludge-slimy glide.
Now take a short pause.
And attack by surprise!
like a shot, and the blockage will rise.
In fact, to be sure, it will come up like a rocket.
And may stick on the ceiling, or fall in your pocket.
Fine poetry needs no more words to explain.
But mine has nothing to lose; perhaps something to gain?
I’ll just pop in here, that an overflow
buggers the suction, as I’m sure you will know.
So if your wash basin has got one of those,
block the hole with your finger, or one of your toes.
the average plug-hole includes a small grid.
It’s there to avoid losing rings that have slid
off from your finger, made slippy by soap.
But don’t think it will spoil things; don’t give up all hope.
Cos the suction and pressure still work round the bend.
the grid helps a satisfactory end
for the gobbet’s dislodged, just exactly the same.
Only difference will be, it won’t shoot from the drain,
So now, though you’ve unblocked the pipe: Oh, good job!
There’s no chance you’ll be bombed by a putrescent glob.
footnote to mobile site . . . This note appears in a sidebar on computers.
is surely not alone in calling sink plungers “pink slungers?” And my kids gave me a pink one for Christmas. But this poem has nothing to do with any of that . . .
This poem embodies the transmission of hard-won wisdom.
I dedicate this poem to my dear sister Jenny who was travelling the world as far as Kashmir and Peru long before I ever got farther than western Europe.
The dedication was for no other reason than that I wrote the first draft on her birthday.