Out-housed in the shitter
Come to thunk but only stunk.
If only down the aisle
Some thurifer might swagger,
Swinging his censer against
The poor squatters napping in the back.
Surely the high heavens are scrubbed
Against such mustings.
But here in the half-moon chapel
Paradise is basely fundamental.
The travailing groans
Of the humiliant petitioner
Rise in supplication
For some propitiation.
The pleading evacuant
Petitions for deliverance
From pooh’s last stand.
poetastrophy 