The Pisser

It were closing in t' pub late on Sunday last week
As I found myself taking a well earned leak
In the Gents, at the rear of The Donkey and Pack,
When I noticed a peeping Tom taking a peek...

I spake up and asked of him "Who hell are you?"
Then added: "..the feck are you doin'?",
"Improving technique Boss - by learning off you."
So I pondered and carried on peein'.

"They call me 'The Pisser', I'm known in these parts
for the terrible secret I hide,
You can watch if you like as I fill up the Dyke."
So I followed The Pisser outside.

As he undid his flies I could not quite believe
What he held in his hands in full pose
Becau' this were no joke, and no ordinary bloke -
Wir a cock like a Fireman's 'ose.

Some men in the crowd were heard shouting out loud
"Keep your distance his tap's started running!"
As some moved back at pace, and some ran from the place,
The performance he gave were just stunning.

His baffling squirting force held in renown -
'The Pisser' legs spread, was stood firm on the ground,
His proud jet forced upward, observed raining down
By delighted spectators on far side of town.

The skill that he's got must have taken some time,
With many an ale drank improving his line,
Practicing always, come rain or come shine,
The control he's developed - far better than mine.

His Pressure and Angle, his Rhythm and Flow,
Adjusting the strength to more fast or more slow,
How he's acheived it I really don't know,
Just thought o' it now gets me busting to go.