In the wipe room, dipped shirttail snagged defecation.
Back-end bounty makes soiled raiment, high-end farting.
Sh*tter horror, ran-down moon cream, it's now dark thighs.
Dung-tight piles, last one leaving the rectum-vent.

The waste in this place comes from buns that decline.
Waste comes in haste if you've had the runs for hours 12.

You've found nothing can cure loose doo. . .medications.
Shat infinite, relentless wells, a high sh*tload.
You walked in at too-much-bran-time situation.
As it worked out, you felt feces just beginning.

There's waste in the queue; it rains from the back
Like monsoon, when you had the runs for hours 12.

As they parted, cheeks were grinding for a hard round.
Constipation's hold is on you. What a blockage!
Bellow! Cry out! Slouching dungles, interred farts nigh.
It's a blessing, goodbye sh*t throes, time for farting,

You'll leave in this place for the logly crowd
A tie that's dark; shat clothes with which you sponged yourself.