Friday, May 25, 2007

Ode on a Well-Formed Turd

I came here, newspaper in hand, for my morning poo;
When I looked down at the toilet, there I found you.
There you recline in the bowl; a nest of cozy porcelain
A crescent of waste matter, like a banana left in the sun.

Normally, public johns are a dreary place to visit,
But then I saw you, your shape so exquisite!
Long and supply curved, with ends tapered like a horn
A surface remarkably smooth, punctuated with pieces of corn.

Form disconnected from the smell I can never get used to;
My two eyes can't comprehend the one eye that loos'd you!

No man could fathom that an odour from the bowels of hell
Could be spawn'd from the bowels of men as well!
Take heart, foul object! Through ages you shall live on in renown,
For whate'er the reason, your creator failed to flush you down.

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