He dripped in shite bran, mangoes--
First a fart peal, then a roar.
He was feeling kind of "C"* sick;
Quite loud was his outpour.
It boomed--once in the larder
Was the feed, which blew away.
In the hall, zounds! the mother did stink. . .
Awaited the last spray.

Now soaking were his nates,
And the milled olefin trailed,
Interfaced with his butt, grossly.
Turds! He wiped his shirted tail.

[organ solo, with all stops open]

The sensation, not pleasin'--
"How uncouth!" his plaintive plea.
He had laundered with his raiment, mards--
Soiled haberdashery.
Bum he sticks 'tween vestment, vergin'
On cleaning of clumped compote.
His cloacal "eye" had opened. . .
He'd not smelled up his greatcoat.

Though he'd not soaked his great'; he's
Had spillway rolled through sh*t's vale.
Face with shame, ruddy; the oaf, he'd
Erred--he'd wiped his shirted tail.


*C[olon]