Stained shirt once was white.
I'd taken chances
Dung-purging that night.
Wrapped 'round my hand is
Weaving like a glove.
Might I write "shite" or "poo"?

Bum wring nicked my pile
As it was gliding
To that sphintc.-like smile
And started sliding
To where dung departs. . .
Toilet tissues ensue.

Stained shirt once was white
As a stone steeple
Made of quartz, not hematite.
Up to the movement
Moved my chic shirt that fell low,
Riffling below,
Luffing near my pants it swayed,
Then warm end-place wring. . .rants were brayed.

Ever since that night, I have worn leather:
Lovely brown-graphite, so it can weather
Dipped turds; out of sight,
Poor stained shirt's sticky plight.

Poo'd me, poo'd me, eewww!
Doo-doo stream doomed me.
Caca-ca-ca-ca. . . .