Squatting by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods are these, I wish I knew
I have an urgent thing to do
They will not see my squatting here
To watch these woods fill up with poo
My lady friend must think it queer
To stop without a toilet near
Between the car and frozen lake
The darkest evening hides my rear
I shake my khaki pants all loose
And find a spot behind the spruce
The only other sounds a sweep
Of noxious wind and downy deuce
I’m usually the cleanly type
But I have odors rank and ripe
And miles to go before I wipe
And miles to go before I wipe
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Poetry