Some people haven't heard this true story yet. I think it's a story told best with rhymes.
'Twas the night before a midterm, little Brahm sat in his house,
Reading textbooks on Hertz, Maxwell, Ampere and Gauss.
As the clock struck ten-thirty - the signal for bed,
Little Brahm packed up his books, and laid down his head.
Little Brahm drifted asleep, but a sound jolted him awake!
A drip-drip-drip in the bathroom - did the plumbing break?
He threw back the covers with a frustrated wrath,
But found no leaks in the shower, sink, toilet or bath.
The drip-drip-drip continued, and little Brahm's eyes grew wide,
He pressed his ear to the wall; the sound was coming from inside.
What did this mean? Had a pipe split in the wall?
The apartment was ancient, so the odds weren't so small.
"I SUMMON YOU, DAVE!" Brahm bellowed into the night.
Well, 'twas a phone call, and it was slightly more polite.
As Landlord Dave confirmed he was on his way over,
Little Brahm mopped the water that was pooling on the floor.
Landlord Dave burst through the door just in time to consume
The sight of water pouring from the light switch in little Brahm's room.
Little Brahm pulled the breaker and Landlord Dave ran out back,
To turn off the water, disabling the aqueous attack.
While Dave was out, little Brahm knelt to feel the pool,
Trying to glean whether the burst pipe was hot or cool.
As Brahm arose, Dave returned to give him a scare;
"It was the toilet," He exclaimed, "It was the toilet upstairs!"
The neighbours above had plugged the toilet before sleep,
The water in their unit hadn't roused them in the least.
Little Brahm looked at his hand, which he'd just dunked in shit,
Shit water from the walls, simply a maelstorm of shit!
Brahm cleaned up the shit water with his trusty mop and pail,
and washed the shit from his hands, trying not to inhale.
So if you hear dripping in your walls, there's a lesson, of course:
Don't touch the water to diagnose the source.