Like the portal of ancients

Ancestors long past

Your door remains evermore locked

The temple of temples

The sacred of sacreds

Sealed from the peasant’s grimy hands

But! Lo!

What is this?

The portal swings forth to my grasp

The heavy door moves forth

The view leaves me stunned

Oh, gods I shall ne’er again mock!

Sing! O unwashed masses

Around the ceremonial pyre

Of the riches that lie within

The holy of holies:

Sing!

Of paper towel dispensers

That actually dispense paper towels!

Sing!

Of actual mirrors

Instead of screws

Where the mirrors used to be!

Sing!

Of urinals

Not shoved awkwardly close together!

Sing!

Of a room that does not smell

Like someone lit a composter on fire!

Sing!

Of locks on stalls

That actually keep said stalls closed

Instead of swinging open

To show me some hairy guy named Phil or something playing Angry Birds while passing fecal             matter!

Oh, ye of the sinks not filled with reams upon reams of sodden towlettes!

Oh, ye of the floors free of suspicious discoloration!

Oh, ye of the graffiti that respects my intelligence!

I worthily magnify your name, O Sanctum Sanctorum!

Even the ancient gods

Of my ancient ancestors

Would be unfit to crap

On a throne such as thine