I write these words
Whilst sitting on the can
Can you fold paper?
The paper man can!

He is sitting right next to me
Stuck to the wall
He's rolled up quite neatly
In a cylindrical ball

I'll pull a few sheets
Cause I'll need them for wiping
I'll do it right after
I finally  stop typing

I'll wipe once or twice
And turn around a check
I think I'll wipe thrice
To be sure, what the heck?

I'll flush it all down
In a brown yellow swirl
I'll wave to it goodbye
Then curtsey like a girl

Wash my hands, wash my face
I'll grab for Fabreeze
I'll spray it like mace
Smells like sweet island breeze

I feel so relieved
As I head for the door
That my ****** excretions
Are in me no more!

rain bird serenades,
Squirrels play second fiddle;
ravens party-****!

We estimate a teen gets a ***** stuck up his or her **** every four seconds.
Vacuous air space remains in the ****** for some time afterwards.

Oh yeah. Up my ***. Up my ***. Up my ***. A lit candle–up my ***. A firecracker, a finger, a thumb–up my ***. An egg. A vibratin' egg. A scrambled egg.
Well, yeah, my *** may be big, but I don't recall a song ever being written about your flat one. Interesting!

It really does smell like something crawled up my *** and died.
It is even more disquieting to find mold growing, pink splotches – Are they from outerspace?

*** angel wings, like the kind they got in greeting cards and ****. float over to 'em, I'm floating, cause I'm dead.