Old Leon sat down with a groan and a sigh, 

A newspaper fortress, the throne his ally. 

But deep in his gut, a battle did brew — 

A demon of chili from last night’s stew. 

 

The tiles were cold, the seat was too tight, 

The bathroom light flickered, ghostly and white. 

With knees a-knockin' and face turning red, 

He prayed to the heavens — or something instead. 

 

“Begone, foul spirit!” he cried in despair, 

As echoes of thunder erupted midair. 

The plumbing protested, the pipes gave a moan, 

As Leon tried to cast out the beast on his own. 

 

He clutched at the roll, his knuckles turned pale, 

Like an exorcist armed with Charmin detail. 

Each grunt was a sermon, each strain a decree: 

"Out with you, Satan! You can't stay in me!" 

 

The toilet did rattle, the water swirled round, 

A cyclone of chaos, a hellish surround. 

'Til finally, silence — the demon had fled, 

Leon wiped off his brow and stood up like the dead. 

 

With victory claimed, he flushed with a grin, 

The devil now banished to pipes deep within. 

He washed his hands clean, with soap and relief, 

Then vowed off hot peppers to spare him more grief. 

 

So heed this fair warning, be cautious, beware: 

The devil might linger in tacos you dare. 

But if you must battle on porcelain land, 

Just shake the devil off — and wash your damn hands!