My brown eye gives a weep.
For the treasures it does keep.
When they’re taken from their home.
Like a stolen garden gnome.
Longing for the dark brown deep.

But remember, life finds a way.
Be it a solid or a liquid spray.
And there is no choice.
The rear have no voice.
When you hold a sticky lump of clay.

If it’s runny they do droop.
Out spills the slimey goop.
Pools of muck on the floor.
Cleaning up is a nasty chore.
Because you didn’t use the scoop.

Like an ever flowing stream.
This hole will never be clean.
You’ll need more than one sponge.
And your memory will not expunge.
An excess of chocolate ice cream.

A stain on your pants and soul.
From the fountain that is your hole.
It gives off such a dreadful reek.
Spooritual redemption you will seek.
Because gone is the last paper roll.