Steve McQueen Icon of the sixties Your name is on my shirt I met your grandson, Steven McQueen With all the east coast pixies. His handshake didn't hurt. He was nice, and used to play with vampires Anne Rice is more my style She writes a tragic monster tale But hey, where is the staple of this Empire’s Usual talk about the pile Of poop, I hear you wail. Well, it came and went With hardly a bother So elsewhere was sought For poetry to be sent Like a wounded father Wallowing in his lot. I know, that was lame! You're seeking much the same As what you normally find After poop leaves my behind. Maybe tomorrow will be better The poop warm and wetter The wipe, near divine. We will see, readers of mine.