Boycott Bowel Movements Poem by Yorktown Disciple

Evening, as slow as thy flaccid gases descend,
Covered with gentlest push on the stool so still,
The straining battlement, and coldest chill
Now explosive; I think of bowels that have to bend.

Who soon perhaps, by lachrymosity surely rode,
The gross smell of delay, where pleasure wants,
Expiring; wander amongst thy cherished taunts,
Gleaming; line the floor near the old commode.

Hang oddly, thy dirty underwear like an old cape
Presented as a holy grail, where the tired body
May rest, near the bathroom, wretched and shoddy,
Nor accord the hourly moans to easily escape.

Ah, magnificent feelings, giving you fresh lumps of bile,
Should grow wondrous like you; leave a perishable pile.