Fair Throne, thou art the Place where I must sit
When Nature’s Needs arise, as needs they must.
I perch upon you, there to take a Shit,
Alas, though, when that Shit should form a Crust.
That Crust offends by giving off a Smell
Compos’d of Vileness, with the Reek of Doom.
O Throne, thou causeth Senses to rebel
When I must needs stop by the “Little Room.”
But, hark! A Sound is stealing on my Ear,
The Sound of Brushing, Flushing, and a Swish!
It tells me that there is no Need to fear
A crusted Pot, within to Poop or Pish.
To drop the Kids off at the Pool I go,
The Throne, it sparkles - thanks to Tae D Bo.
[Being a Sonnet in Iambic Pooptameter.]