Product of a typical writer’s workshop in New York

Dear classmates,

I chose the toilet for my ode, because where would we be without one?

I know where we would be;

I have been there, but since I have been there I am aware

how wonderful it is to have one.


Ode to toilet


On the throne in your House of Honor,

feet planted on the floor,

you toil your coil,

 and daily spoil will swill from under thee,

like all the golden lifeless fish flushed in my past’s privy.

To be or not to be

could never be the question here if you just had to pee.

But since you ate all that I made with love vivaciously,

like Bacchus, Mr. Mangetouts,

the time you’ll spend on this commode commands you to expend

today’s visit to the loo.

Whataloo it is my friend! Tiles sparkle clean and bright!

This diurnal urinal is a Necessarium of Might.

Cloacal veins run deep from you to soil and shiny sea.

Reach to your right, you’ll find Two Ply to keep you hemorrhoid free.

No wood, no corn, no lace, no hemp, no stone, sponge on a stick,

thanks to Andrew’s Paper Mill papyrus does the trick.

So just unroll the cardboard scroll,

soft sheets flow to the floor.

Take two, take three, fold, wrap, crumble,

make Crapper proud: Take more!

No need to run the tab to drown out laborious sounds.

These walls won’t tell, but they’ll

protect you protracting mounds.

In here ordure is no ordeal;

this is your House of Ease,

your House of Morning,

your Jakes, your John,

your Whataloo latrine.

Please take your time, heat up the seat while you read the daily news,

you do your doo, your number two and

be my stinking muse.