At the crack of dawn, an epic dumping.
Displacing the water with a solid thumping.
Strangely there is hardly a smell.
A contrast to my usual pooping spell.
Which lately has been thickly pumping.
But then round two begins to fountain.
Five, six, seven… the bursts I’m a-countin’.
And I spoke too soon, up wafts the stench.
No one will be saying "What a mensch!"
Instead, I’ll be lamenting my rear drownin’.