Another Res'nant Alley Runs Day

It is "vocal"�not poop�he hopes,
As his untying sphincter's sprung,
But then feels the reeking fire and realizes it is dung.

Another res'nant alley runs day:
Charred hole burning like a flare.
Dose of Imodium won't stop the flames�
There's still a fire down there.

He's ashen-gray; his output may
Flow to the bay; make algal blooms.
That ale was green; should have foreseen
He'd have to clean all those bathrooms.

Another res'nant alley runs day:
Charred hole burning like a flare.
Dose of Imodium won't stop the flames�
There's still a fire down there.

Comfort-station scrolls
Of paper come unrolled.
He's prob'ly killed a thousand trees.
His thoughts all seem to stray�to when he'd fart away,
Like he'd been in a beanery.

ca ca ca ca ca ca ca. . . .

Another res'nant alley runs day:
Charred hole burning like a flare.
Another res'nant alley runs day:
Here in anus-brimful land.

Another res'nant alley runs day. . . .
(repeat with flatulent echo)