I feel a rumble within my gut.
Then some pressure inside my butt.

I clench cheeks tightly to hold back the force.
I’m hoping like Hell there’s no brown sauce.

Maybe it’s was due to all that crumbly feta.
No longer did my insides feel any better.

Or could it be that egg and bacon quiche?
Whatever it is, it demands a quick release!

I begin my perilous journey to the men’s room.
I set off slowly to avoid a brown doom.

If I take a wrong step or quicken my pace…
I may receive a gassy or slippery disgrace.

So easy does it as I waddle down the stairs.
But a gas leak is detected by my nostril hairs.

Do I sprint now and cement my brown demise?
It could just be gas or a sticky chocolate surprise.

I play it safe and take advice from the tortoise.
Slow and steady, and rigid like rigor mortis.

As I pass work colleges I avoid eye contact.
If I stop and chat my pants may get crapped.

Plus, they may also get a whiff of my gas leak.
It still could be a turtle head having a peek.

I focus on my destination, several paces left to go.
So close to victory when I’m dealt a terrible blow…

An untied shoelace caused me to stumble!
As a result, my undies took the brown tumble!