The Prestige

Contemplative he stared at the wavering ripples

Of the water that moved ‘round the bowl,

The hair had been artlessly plucked off his nipples,

His left eyebrow, too, paid a toll.

A lamp had been duct taped around his left arm,

And a cereal box to his hand,

The dog bone they’d left in his fly had its charm,

And the thong on his head, truly grand.

Black Sharpie’d penises covered his face,

Then came dry heaves and retching galore,

But his dear friends made sure to record him in case,

He forgot how he’d felt on that cold tile floor.

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