For those who see PoopReport heralding the downfall of Western literary tradition, I present precedent: Jonathan Swift's 1734 poem Strephon and Chloe. Swift has been both praised and condemned for what is called his "excremental vision" -- his incessant use of scatological rhetoric in prose and poetry. To me, this proves that the issues of Shameful and Shameless Shitting aren't new -- Swift was discussing them three hundred years ago, and for three hundred years people have been calling him sick for talking about poop.

In this poem, Chloe is the most beautiful girl in all the town. So beautiful, in fact, so incredibly beautiful, that no one can imagine her dropping a deuce -- and she can't imagine allowing any man to know that she does so. Stephon, her suitor, has a similar problem -- how can he poop, or fart, or even sweat in the presence of this heavenly creature?

Strephon and Chloe is about how the pressures of Shamefulness create unrealistic views of the human experience -- and how happiness can be achieved by moving above those views.

(Strangely, after first explaining describing their unrealistic expectations, and then showing their happiness following their embrace of human nature as shitting, farting human beings, Swift ends with a long condemnation of their Strephon and Chloe's style of living. While some read this to represent the author's true feelings on the subject, I read it as satire -- it's not the moralistic voice of the author, but rather the impractically idealistic voice of society.)

The poem below is heavily edited -- Swift purists will hate me for it, but I chopped off the non-poop bits, including about fifty lines of moralizing at the end. Brevity... wit. Here's the uncut original.

Read carefully. There are some really funny lines, but they take a bit of thought sometimes.

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Strephon and Chloe
Jonathan Swift, 1734

Of Chloe all the Town has rung;
By ev'ry size of Poets sung:
So beautiful a Nymph appears
But once in Twenty Thousand Years.
By Nature form'd with nicest Care,
And, faultless to a single Hair.
Her graceful Mein, her Shape, and Face,
Confest her of no mortal Race:
And then, so nice, and so genteel;
Such Cleanliness from Head to Heel:
No Humours gross, or frowzy Steams,
No noisom Whiffs, or sweaty Streams,
Before, behind, above, below,
Could from her taintless Body flow.
Would so discreetly Things dispose,
None ever saw her pluck a Rose.
Her dearest Comrades never caught her
Squat on her Hams, to make Maid's Water.
You'd swear, that so divine a Creature
Felt no Necessities of Nature.
In Summer had she walkt the Town,
Her Arm-pits would not stain her Gown:
At Country Dances, not a Nose
Could in the Dog-Days smell her Toes.
Her Milk-white Hands, both Palms and Backs,
Like Iv'ry dry, and soft as Wax.
Her Hands the softest ever felt,
Tho' cold would burn, tho' dry would melt

But, Strephon sigh'd so loud and strong,
He blew a Settlement along:
And, bravely drove his Rivals down
With Coach and Six, and House in Town.
The bashful Nymph no more withstands,
Because her dear Papa commands.
The charming Couple now unites;
Proceed we to the Marriage Rites.

But, still the hardest Part remains.
Strephon had long perplex'd his Brains,
How with so high a Nymph he might
Demean himself the Wedding-Night:
For, as he view'd his Person round,
Meer mortal Flesh was all he found:
His Hand, his Neck, his Mouth, and Feet
Were duly washt to keep 'em sweet;
(With other Parts that shall be nameless,
The Ladies else might think me shameless.)
The Weather and his Love were hot;
And should he struggle; I know what --
Why let it go, if I must tell it --
He'll sweat, and then the Nymph may smell it.
While she a Goddess dy'd in Grain
Was unsusceptible of Stain:
And, Venus-like, her fragrant Skin
Exhal'd Ambrosia from within:
Can such a Deity endure
A mortal human Touch impure?
How did the humbled Swain detest
His prickled Beard, and hairy Breast!
His Night-Cap border'd round with Lace
Could give no Softness to his Face.

While these Reflections fill'd his Head,
The Bride was put in Form to Bed;
He follow'd, stript, and in he crept,
But, awfully his Distance kept.

Now, Ponder well ye Parents dear;
Forbid your Daughters guzzling Beer;
And make them ev'ry Afternoon
Forbear their Tea, or drink it soon;
That, e'er to Bed they venture up,
They may discharge it ev'ry Sup;
If not; they must in evil Plight
Be often forc'd to rise at Night,
Keep them to wholsome Food confin'd,
Nor let them taste what causes Wind;
('Tis this the Sage of Samos means,
Forbidding his Disciples Beans)
O, think what Evils must ensue;
Miss Moll the Jade will burn it blue:
And when she once has got the Art,
She cannot help it for her Heart;
But, out it flies, even when she meets
Her Bridegroom in the Wedding-Sheets.
Carminative and Diuretick,
Will damp all Passion Sympathetick;
And, Love such Nicety requires,
One Blast will put out all his Fires.
Since Husbands get behind the Scene,
The Wife should study to be clean;
Nor give the smallest Room to guess
The Time when Wants of Nature press;
But, after Marriage, practise more
Decorum than she did before;
To keep her Spouse deluded still,
And make him fancy what she will.

In Bed we left the married Pair;
'Tis Time to shew how Things went there.
Strephon, who had been often told,
That Fortune still assists the bold,
Resolv'd to make his first Attack:
But, Chloe drove him fiercely back.
How could a Nymph so chaste as Chloe,
With Constitution cold and snowy,
Permit a brutish Man to touch her?
Ev'n Lambs by Instinct fly the Butcher.
Resistance on the Wedding-Night
Is what our Maidens claim by Right:
And, Chloe, 'tis by all agreed,
Was Maid in Thought, and Word, and Deed,
Yet, some assign a diff'rent Reason;
That Strephon chose no proper Season.

Say, fair ones, must I make a Pause?
Or freely tell the secret Cause.

Twelve Cups of Tea, (with Grief I speak)
Had now constrain'd the Nymph to leak.
This Point must needs be settled first;
The Bride must either void or burst.
Then, see the dire Effect of Pease,
Think what can give the Colick Ease,
The Nymph opprest before, behind,
As Ships are toss't by Waves and Wind,
Steals out her Hand by Nature led,
And brings a Vessel into Bed:
Fair Utensil, as smooth and white
As Chloe's Skin, almost as bright.

Strephon who heard the fuming Rill
As from a mossy Cliff distill;
Cry'd out, ye Gods, what Sound is this?
Can Chloe, heav'nly Chloe _____?
But, when he smelt a noysom Steam
Which oft attends that luke-warm Stream;
(Salerno both together joins
As sov'reign Med'cines for the Loins)
And, though contriv'd, we may suppose
To slip his Ears, yet struck his Nose:
He found her, while the Scent increas'd
As mortal as himself at least.
But, soon with like Occasions prest,
He boldly sent his Hand in quest,
(Inspir'd with Courage from his Bride,)
To reach the Pot on t'other Side.
And as he fill'd the reeking Vase,
Let fly a Rouzer in her Face.

The little Cupids hov'ring round;
(As Pictures prove) with Garlands crown'd,
Abasht at what they saw and heard,
Flew off, nor evermore appear'd.

Adieu to ravishing Delights,
High Raptures, and romantick Flights;
To Goddesses so heav'nly sweet,
Expiring Shepherds at their Feet;
To silver Meads, and shady Bow'rs,
Drest up with Amaranthine Flow'rs.

How great a Change! how quickly made!
They learn to call a Spade, a Spade.
They soon from all Constraint are freed;
Can see each other do their Need.
On Box of Cedar sits the Wife,
And makes it warm for Dearest Life.
And, by the beastly way of Thinking,
Find great Society in Stinking.
Now Strephon daily entertains
His Chloe in the homeli'st Strains;
And, Chloe more experienc'd grown,
With Int'rest pays him back his own.
No Maid at Court is less asham'd,
Howe'er for selling Bargains fam'd,
Than she, to name her Parts behind,
Or when a-bed, to let out Wind.

Fair Decency, celestial Maid,
Descend from Heav'n to Beauty's Aid;
Though Beauty may beget Desire,
'Tis thou must fan the Lover's Fire;
For, Beauty, like supreme Dominion,
Is best supported by Opinion;
If Decency brings no Supplies,
Opinion falls, and Beauty dies.

To see some radiant Nymph appear
In all her glitt'ring Birth-day Gear,
You think some Goddess from the Sky
Descended, ready cut and dry:
But, e'er you sell your self to Laughter,
Consider well what may come after;
For fine Ideas vanish fast,
While all the gross and filthy last.

O Strephon, e'er that fatal Day
When Chloe stole your Heart away,
Had you but through a Cranny spy'd
On House of Ease your future Bride,
In all the Postures of her Face,
Which Nature gives in such a Case;
Distortions, Groanings, Strainings, Heavings;
'Twere better you had lickt her Leavings,
Than from Experience find too late
Your Goddess grown a filthy Mate.
Your Fancy then had always dwelt
On what you saw, and what you smelt;
Would still the same Ideas give ye,
As when you spy'd her on the Privy.
And, spight of Chloe's Charms divine,
Your Heart had been as whole as mine.

Authorities both old and recent
Direct that Women must be decent;
And, from the Spouse each Blemish hide
More than from all the World beside.

On Sense and Wit your Passion found,
By Decency cemented round;
Let Prudence with Good Nature strive,
To keep Esteem and Love alive.
Then come old Age whene'er it will,
Your Friendship shall continue still:
And thus a mutual gentle Fire,
Shall never but with Life expire.