I used to write poetry. Then I realized that there are about five people in the world that write excellent poetry (two of them being Shel Silverstein and Dr. Suess). You are not one of the five, and neither am I. All the rest of us can do is to try to mash words together and have others say how deep we are.
But every once in a while, the muse of poetry moves me.
If you’re reading this, and have actually written poetry, then I’m not talking about your poetry, yours is great. Seriously, I loved the part about the seagull and the waterlily.
I make up stuff about healthcare and occasionally glean insight to making a positive change in society. Other times I make poop jokes.
Yet, here I am, having gone several columns without poetry or a single poop reference. I feel I have failed you, my loyal readers (both of you).
Thus, as atonement for lack of both poetry and poop jokes, I present my
Sonnet to poop.
The brownish waste with nutty taste
it glistens dark as poo comes out.
With head held high I make more paste
Some straining with my anus shout.
Log one descends, it hooks and bends,
and silent wet the bowls embrace.
Log two and three, my cheek defends,
from upward splash and sure disgrace.
A silent breath and soon the rest
that comes from job done well and pure.
As poopers go I am the best,
This is no brag, I’ll not abjure.
If green or brown or darkened hue,
Tis always grand to have a poo.