The Beloved came down with something nasty, just as we were about to run out of toilet paper. While I was racing off to the shops, I composed this. Thankfully, it’s fiction; it didn’t occur in the middle of the night when all options were closed.  To the tune of The Final Countdown, by Europe.

And here, courtesy of the talented and excellently-bewhiskered Mr Robbie Matthews, is a performance of same.  Enjoy!

October 2014

We’re under the weather
We’re not feeling well
And maybe we’ll get worse
Or not, who can tell?
I wish I could say who’s to blame,
Who used it last,
But here in the littlest room I find…

It’s the final bogroll…
The final bogroll…
Oh no!

We’re heading for mishap (mishap), and still we must go
We walked into this trap (this trap), and terrible woe, yeah.
With so many night hours to go, no shops to be found (to be found)
I pray we survive even so…

With the final bogroll…
The final bogroll…
The final bogroll (final bogroll, oh!)
The final bogroll, oh-oh!
(Repeat ad infinitum, with knees together)