“P” is for the Place I Poop, which is the Porcelain throne.
“O” is for the Only One, I like to poop alone.
“O” again is for the Orifice Out of which my poop will fall.
“P” at last is for a Plea: believe my tale, tall.
For once there was an honest man who dreamed a dream terrific, but if he followed his dream for long, his life would be horrific. His dream was large, this dream he dreamt, though not a common one. To sail a barge, he did lament, it would be very fun. But this young man had a condition which caused him endless trouble. Though not yet known, he soon would find he’d need a personal bubble. That awful stench his body creates the longer he waits to drop the weights made him bait on the freight; it was his fate to never find a mate. But wait! For all hope has not vanished, he will not from the freight be banished. Destiny will favor him yet, with one he had not yet met. And just when his life was looking so grim and it seemed that he soon would despair, as if on a whim he went out for fresh air. Up on the bow he stood, gazing around, and there was a girl standing close on the ground. This girl was not ordinary, no, she never would be. This girl was impaired, but yes, she could see. Her nose did not work, could not from her birth, but her eyes did meet his, and that had great worth. For they had been blessed that day to fall deep in love, a proclamation set down upon them from above. And with the locking of eyes came the locking of hearts, two that now would never be apart. So our protagonist took a step back and prepared for the jump. He took the long leap to land with a thump. The jump was mighty; he used all of his force, and used every muscle, abdomen included, of course. But this time this man’s struggle didn’t bother at all. Though the stench was still there, the lady it did not appall. The struggle to find a toilet may never leave, but the quest for a friend is complete indeed. She is his and he is hers, a match made forever, and this endures. No smells will break them; no odors shake them; no reeks mistake them; no scents will take them. So let this to you be a lesson first, that a terrible stench may not be the worst. Though your bowels are not proper, don’t give up trying. There’s always a hope, and I am not lying.
Time For Poetry