The Tale of Simon Small and the Skid Marks in the Hall

The Tale of Simon Small and the Skid Marks in the Hall

When Simon Small went to the loo,
He did what normal people do.
He sat, he thought, he hummed a tune,
And left again—perhaps too soon.

For when he rose and turned away,
He left a mark—a grim display!
A trail, a smear, a brownish stain,
A blot upon the porcelain.

He glanced, he saw, but did not care,
“Someone,” he thought, “will clean it there!”
He left, and smugly shut the door,
And walked away—content, once more.

But woe! Before the day was through,
The office knew who’d used that loo.
For whispers spread, from stall to sink,
Of Simon’s most unholy stink.

The janitor sighed, the manager frowned,
The cleaner’s trolley went around.
They scrubbed and sprayed with bleach and foam,
While Simon hid and skulked at home.

And thus we learn, both young and old:
To clean your mess before it’s told.
A brush there sits beside the bowl—
So scrub, dear friends, and cleanse your soul.

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Moral:

When skid marks linger in the loo,
The blame will stick as well—to you.