The problem of shitting in strange stalls
With graffiti scrawled upon the walls,
Is that you`ll read an ode,
Not consider your load
And finish up with turd spattered balls.

(well...if you`re a guy with diarrhea, that is)

Shits, I just don't know where you come up with this stuff. I have tried to poetize, but can't get even one verse.

That's a kick ass poem. I have to hand it to you, Shits Happily, you've got a real talent. You are officially a Poo-et loo-reaute.

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.....hugging bunnies since 1969
www.daphneszoo.com

This reminds me of my favorite poet Mr. Edgar Allan Poo! I agree with the daphster there! You're doing a fine job Shits so keep em coming!
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The Thunderous Crapper 63 Enjoying home toilet advantage since 2004!

Very fine poem there Shits'. I can attest to the fact that there is not much worse than taking a protracted, evil, multi-wiper in a public stall. There is nothing to do in that damn metal box, but try to get it over with asap. Since I have to plant my ass in many public stalls, maybe someday we will be in ajoining booths and we can collaborate on a messterpiece.

But then again that would mean one of us is in the wrong bathroom.

Some come here to sit and think

Some come here to shit and stink

but i come here to scratch my balls

and read the writing on the walls

Nice poem! It's nice to see some more pooetry after a long time without a new verse. As mentioned above, this poem has captured the agony of a public dump and an ambush attack by million wiper gnomes.

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Born right the first time.

Lovely pooem that captures the struggle very well. Let's see . . .

The room is full, yet I see not a soul;
They all are in the stalls. One stall is left
Unoccupied; but poop is in the bowl,
A long and healthy brown turd of some heft.

My situation is now mandatory:
The choice is not to go or flee.
This one stall left in the lavatory
Is now the only one that's left for me.

I try to flush the pot, but it is dead.
Can I leave this room to find another?
No, not a bit--my turd now pokes its head,
So down come trou, and one turd comes, its brother

Following soon, with plops and grunts and more as
My poops with all the rest now join the chorus.
I'm done, but envy all the rest whose flushing
Fills the room from which I now am rushing.

Yeah, baby!! I love it! I've loved Frost's poems since I was very young, and it seems his works kinda set themselves up for some great poop adlibbing. Keep them coming!

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Rock-n-roll! Poopy-poo!

--and piles to go before I sleep.
--and piles to go before I sleep.

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To affect the quality of the poo, that is the art of life. ~Thoreau, sort of.

On a tangentially related note, I'm still shocked to learn that girls actually poop.

Disturbingly enough, I heard a girl fart yesterday. My illusions are shattered.

Oh Dear, my little Herbie is growing up....I"m getting one of those tears in my eye...it happens too fast....where are those by gone days of diapers and shit covered hair....
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The proper order is kiss me, then go smell the other dog or cat's butt. I cannot stress this enough.

Thank you, all, for your kind words! I felt the urge to lampoon for PR's pleasure, and as soon as I saw "Ghost House", well, I knew right then and there. Shitwit, you are correct--Robert Frost may have had this in mind. ;) Daphne, I am honored, nay, humbled, by your naming me Poo-et Loo-reate of PR. (Curtseys) Thank you!

Ohh...I feel my snark pen rising to assault yet another poet's artistry...
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Assaulting toilets since 1977!