Another Res'nant Alley Runs Day

It is "vocal"—not poop—he hopes,
As his untying sphincter's sprung,
But then feels the reeking fire and realizes it is dung.

Another res'nant alley runs day:
Charred hole burning like a flare.
Dose of Imodium won't stop the flames—
There's still a fire down there.

He's ashen-gray; his output may
Flow to the bay; make algal blooms.
That ale was green; should have foreseen
He'd have to clean all those bathrooms.

Another res'nant alley runs day:
Charred hole burning like a flare.
Dose of Imodium won't stop the flames—
There's still a fire down there.

Comfort-station scrolls
Of paper come unrolled.
He's prob'ly killed a thousand trees.
His thoughts all seem to stray—to when he'd fart away,
Like he'd been in a beanery.

ca ca ca ca ca ca ca. . . .

Another res'nant alley runs day:
Charred hole burning like a flare.
Another res'nant alley runs day:
Here in anus-brimful land.

Another res'nant alley runs day. . . .
(repeat with flatulent echo)