It's late in the day I know, For this poo poem I bestow. But when it comes, I must go To the stall where it shall flow. Regularity it seems Is hard for me to find. I'm bursting at the seams And waiting to be fined For gassing out my neighbors From my poo-holding labors. Alas I must cry! To the heavens and above, To poo or to die, For liberty and love! Poo.