Parody of “Ode on a Grecian Urn” – Rated R for crude humor, adult themes, and excrement.
THOU send yellow’d tide of urineness
Thou beer-filled waste dripping in slow Drain,
Silvery haired custodian with bottles of bleach
A chemical scent more pungent than your behind:
What hairy-balled legend hangs about thy shorts
Of boxers or briefs, or of both,
In Chicago or the halls of Madison Square Garden?
What men or boys are these? What women wait?
What bad splatter? What struggle to shake off?
What plumbing and pink cakes? What missed target?
Herd of bodies are sweaty, but those unrelieved
Are sweatier; therefore, ye flaccid penises, pee on;
Not on the the wall or floor, but, more controlled,
Pee to the porcelain god of no touch flush:
Fairgrounds, beneath the trees, thou cannot hold it in
Thy thong, nor empty can but on those trees there;
Cold Budweiser, never, never drink that piss,
Though finishing with your pole—yet, do not leave;
She cannot see, though you have no more pee,
For first zip your fly, and wash your hands!
Ah, nasty, nasty bowels! that cannot hold
Your farts, nor ever lose to Spring scent;
And, nasty gas artist, undiluted,
For ever popping sounds, for ever crude;
More nasty gas! more nasty, nasty gas!
For it is warm and still lingering,
For ever farting, and for ever dung;
All breathing methane poison all around,
That leaves a man light-headed and dizzy,
A burning nostril, and a retching tongue.
Who are these coming to the restroom?
To what crusty throne, O mysterious seat
Missing the stall door exposing you to guys,
And all your stinky pants ’round ankles rest?
What little brown droppings from your hole,
Or mountain-built with softened fecal matter,
Butt emptied of its funk, this pile with corn?
And, little stall, thy plumber for evermore
Will silently clean; and not a soul to tell
Why you are disgusting, and should not come back.
O arched entrance! air passing through! with plead
Of mortal men and maidens overcome,
With crusted pants and the splattered pee;
Thou, silent but deadly! dost squeeze out of butt
As does poopie: Cold Miller!
When old age shall generate this waste,
Thou shalt return, in between other stalls
Than before, a scent to fan, to whom you fart
‘Booty has poop, poop booty,—that is all
Ye know from birth, and all ye need to go.’