Toilet Bowl Muse
My toilet bowl Muse, how splendid thou art!
Unlike the Bard, who had no time to poop,
I pen rhymes, metaphors, and rhythms that fart.
His sonnets, the best ever, did not droop
in force or beauty. Rather, they endure
for ever, and live alongside his plays.
My sonnets, albeit, like inspired manure,
excrete in the most personal, human ways.
But, as with Shakespeare, Pope, or Lord Byron,
divine afflatus, like their excrement,
smells like scent—but my droppings of bronze and iron,
like cow dung, are solid and more feculent.
O, toilet bowl Muse! Thou art my Tenth Muse:
when you breathe on me my bowels still won't refuse.
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