We have set our champing buttocks
Over the railings of the bridge
And let fly our fecals 
On the greening submerged fridge
Quickly waddle to the farside: 
Whose shitship sails first?
In Pooh Sticks as in life
It appears I’ve come off worse.

You cheer yourself as you button up
Your turd well on its way.
I leave my kecks at half-mast 
Expectantly I pray:  
“Good God please make a showing!
Let me have some dignity.”
But you are bored and only minutes pass.
I have lost unequivocally.

With a cooling on the buttonhole 
I waddle back to the start
And see the smeary mess
Painting the fridge a shade of shart  
“This river is a dreadful state”
I say, “And ‘don’t flow like how it ougta’ ”
“Fuck off” you cry and raise two fingers high
“You’re CEO of Thames Water,”

“Your shit may sink but it still stinks”
And ruefully I agree.
Though I suspect his gassy diet 
Must help with buoyancy.
We’ll come back again next year
And game on fecally,
And in time-honoured tradition set bonuses 
For my friend from Drax and me.