The Lavatory and Mister Pat

For Patrick

after T S Eliot*

The lavatory’s where Mister Pat secretes his little store

of books and games and magazines and catalogues galore.

He’s the bafflement of father, his poor old Mum’s despair,

for, when they want the lavatory, guess who’s always there?

 

The lavatory, the lavatory, he’s always in the lavatory.

We’ve broken every lock and bolt to get into the lavatory.

His powers of concentration would make his teachers stare,

and, when you want the lavatory, guess who’s always there?

You may think you’re pretty nippy as you’re racing up the stair,

but, when you reach the lavatory, guess who’s always there?

 

The lavatory’s in a little room, it’s nice and warm and pink

with a pink enamel bathtub and a pale pink porcelain sink.

You would love it if you saw it, if you ever could get in,

but pacing up and down outside will leave you worn and thin.

You’ll tear your hair and grind your teeth while waiting for the loo,

and, when you think he’s almost done, he’s only halfway through.

 

The lavatory, the lavatory, he’s always in the lavatory.

The little devil sits it out, defying rationality.

You may think he’s in his bedroom, you may think he is elsewhere,

but, when you reach the lavatory, he’s always bloody there!

 

He’s outwardly a charming boy (he doesn’t wash his feet)

and the neighbours think he’s lovely when they meet him in the street,

but when you want to brush your teeth or comb your silken locks

or squeeze your spots, defuzz your legs, or change your smelly socks,

the memory of a steaming bath will fill you with despair,

for when you reach the lavatory, guess who’s always there?

And when his little sister finds her gameboy’s gone astray

or Daddy’s lost his car mag that he only bought today

they will find them in the usual place. It really isn’t fair,

and it’s no use trying to prise him off, he’s always bloody there!

And when you finally get him out, he’s bound to smile and say:

‘You can come in now!’ You seethe with rage, but he gets clean away.

 

You’ll be sure to find him resting (he’s got little else to do)

or searching for a piece of Lego he’s left in the loo.

 

The lavatory, the lavatory, he’s always in the lavatory,

there never was a boy who so abused its hospitality.

He always brings a magazine, and one or two to spare,

And when you’re dying for the loo, he’s always bloody there!

And they say that all the girls who hog the bathroom day and night

and (though it isn’t always needed) lock the door shut out of spite

are as nothing when compared with Pat asserting squatter’s rights

as he settles down for half an hour to have a good old read!

First published in A Sporting Chance, The Boho Press

 

*Macavity the Mystery Cat, from ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’

 

 

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