He wanted out.
Out Goddammit! Get me out!
He couldn’t breathe, you fucking guys! Get me out!
Pull me up and out of this shit hole!
Virgil was stuck in a real shithole.
Because a wiseacre named Stu Evens had moved his outhouse.
The very same outhouse we’d tipped over nearly every Hallowe’en.
So ‘ol Stu got smart and moved his shit house before us,
Now Virgil, he’s caught in Stu’s plan and Stu’s shit.
And Virgil, he don’t like it!
Not one teensy-weensy bit!
Oh, Virgil stank!
He really kicked up quite the olfactory fuss.
And old Stu must’ve stood there, in his gauch there in the shadow.
Unconsciously stroking maybe his first wood in months.
Quietly laughing gut wrenchingly in his clandestine-est wheeze.
Like a whistle, if you wanted as a whistle you’d take back.
Basket-ball size gut taught from roaring satisfaction…
Son-of-bitch ol’ Stu got Virgil in big shit!
Sucker made a plan and us and Virgil played right into it!
Thank you, friend.