Balls of Yarn (Warning: Puerile content)

(I can only rhyme the next line with checklist)
Begin with butter on toast for my breakfast
On top of the butter, I thickly spread Marmite
And elevate toast slice up mouthwards to bite.
Then some minutes later I run for a bus
I miss it by seconds and begin to cuss
I walk thus/ergo to the station quite quickly
But something intestinal makes me feel sickly.
So some moments later I seek out a toilet,
The toast seeks to commence my day and then spoil it
Alas! Fuck-Cazart! Cunt-Yegads! Train is leaving!
I take leave of basin with contents still steaming.
Now running of sorts for the third time already
Trousers round ankles make my progress unsteady.
I leap for the train as the doors they are shutting
I slam into closed doors while window head-butting
Through concussive haze I notice the train move
And as if the thirteenth had its manhood to prove
I find myself moving along with said train
And notice an unbelievable pain!
A look to the south would confirm the cause
A limb, not my leg, is trapped in the doors.
I plead with the standees – please release me at once!
But they all stare ahead, the blind insular cunts.
So it went then, my day, oh that fateful last train ride
When sod’s law and Transport for London did collide.
I think it was Finchley when consciousness left me
Then Death’s blunt-edged scythe was applied oh-so deftly.
Forgive me, dear reader, if you are quite app-alled
By my story ’bout how from life’s lodge I was blackballed.
My lesson is simple: eat hearty, enjoy life
Just remember, for Pete’s sake your small, sharpened steak knife.