“Ain’t it time you wrote a blog, Dic?”
Asked my mate (well-meaning but thick).
“You’re quite right,” I sighed,
And sat down and tried.
The outcome is this limerick.

But it’s hard to compose a good blog
In a two-man tent near Maenclochog.
There’s no wi-fi signal,
The weather is dismal,
And his farts make it stink like a bog.

For better or, more likely, worse
It’s simpler to rattle off verse.
I can toy with taboo
While he goes to poo
(Constipation is such a curse).

I opted to grab a quick nap
And woke as he crawled through the flap.
“Well?” queried the lout,
“Got anything out?”
His grin meant he’d managed a crap.

By this time I’d had well enough:
My gloom was heavy and thorough,
I was soaked through and through
And had run out of dough.
I’d rather go camping in Slough!