Well I tried to make it dump day,
But I got so cramps-recessed.
It might not be a pump day;
In fact, I might get depressed,
So I guess I’ll have to alter
The food on which I will dine,
And I’ll have to haul out that old water line.

And I’ll make that water spout through—
Clyster goes in there through pries.
And I hope that it will rout poo
To then drop between my thighs.
I won’t be commode-despondent—
It’s for movement that I’ve pined,
But right now I’m really in a BM bind.

Gonna creep to where I’m shit-full,
Gonna creep way on up there,
Gonna inundate the innards,
Which are currently impaired.

Well, I’d tried to take one, but naught was draining;
I couldn’t make one.

Well, it works: I start to spout doo.
Clyster stowed in there through pries
It is just the thing to rout poo;
Now it drops between my things.
I’m no more commode-despondent,
No more in a BM bind
Then I learn: there’s no toilet paper to find.

As I leak, needing a tincture,
I can’t creep to seek those squares
That will clean my seeping sphincter,
Which will soon need some repairs.

Now I can’t not take one, a lot is draining
And forms a lake. . .run.

Doo drop, doo drop. . . .