Gaseous Poo

Gaseous Poo was a boxer
He floated just like a bee
He stung like a butterfly
sat on a peach, inserted rectally.

He floated on top of the water
A legend all bubbly and brown –
Knowing the crowd would try to enshroud
him with tissues – refusing to drown.

He was down but by God he was fighting
He was not going to let it all end
No miserable flush or stab with a brush
Could push him around the bend.

’cause Gaseous was a survivor
He’d been dumped and was shat on you see
But do not despair because Gas’ll be there
The next time you come in to pee.

I wish that I was a pusscat

For Jenny, whose thought this was and Charlie who modelled for it

I wish that I was a pusscat
When miffed I would mete out some claw
When happy I might do some purring
or scratching my cheek on the door
But mostly I would spend my time sleeping
in places you think are for you
Your chair or on top of your pillow
Your pyjamas ? Why yes, that’d do.
Very few things would wake me from slumber
A poo or a pee or a snack
I’d hold tight otherwise
and I’d squeeze shut my eyes
When a human paw touches my back.
I would only eat tea at the neighbours’
The muck you buy I’d simply ignore
All I’d need from you
is the removal of poo
and a servant to open the door.
Yes I wish that I was a pusscat
Then the rules of your societee
Would apply to all dogs, mice and people round here
To everyone except me !

Four Young Boys

On the occasion of a family holiday

Four young gentlemen came to France
A holiday chateau awaited
Their mothers and fathers and uncles and aunts
Were all simply there to be baited
The gentlemen played in the fountain
They bombed and they dived in the pool
And probably learned far more naughty French words
Than they’ll ever get taught at school
So Timothy, Charlie, Georgie and Tink
Ces cadeaux sont pour vous
I forgot to tell you earlier I think …
“Caca” is French for poo …

My Son’s Nappy

The urine jet’s mighty impressive
as it shoots twenty feet in the sky
he fires off two golden arches
and wails as he wees in your eye

The flailing and gesticulation
makes changing his nappy quite tough
As if forty three million poppers to pop
Isn’t torturing Dad quite enough

It’s “Oh God” O’Clock in the morning
You can hardly believe you’re awake
And a spectacle full of your baby son’s wee
Is a challenging shower to take
without cursing or muttering naughties
which you’ve promised your wife you won’t do
So you wipe super-fast
in case cleaning his arse
Unleashes a torrent of poo