Quest For Relief...

Across the incredible causeway I fly,
Under low sullen clouds of dismal lead hue
With a song in my heart and a tear in my eye;
For I must away to the orchards of Phloon,
There to beg for a pint of the juice of the prune.

In the eye of the hurricane I fly my ship,
A vessel of gossamer, toothpicks and down--
My life hangs by a thread, I dare not make a slip
As I set my course sure to the vale of Phloon,
Seeking the powerful juice of the prune.

O, the juice of the prune! Potent, magical drink!
It hath helped me go poo-poo since I was a lad,
From the shallows of Galdor, where evil things slink,
Down to Phloon Vale, where the swollen plums dry
Into the fruit that I must have, or die.

I have feasted on pizza, on pretzels and beer,
Cheeses and sausages, paté on toast,
And pasta galore have I guzzled all year;
So I take my plugged bowels to the orchards of Phloon,
There to purge myself clean with the juice of the prune.