Where Pigs Won't Crawl

 I have pissed where pigs won't crawl,
 On piles of dung eight feet tall.
 I have pissed in steaming ditches,
 And I have soaked my tailored britches.
 I have done it standing up,
 Lying down and in a squat,
 And I have pissed into the wind,
 Then turned around and pissed again!

 I have shat in unusual places,
 In depthless holes and in Ming vases,
 Behind the barn and in the woods.
 I have shat when the shitting's good!
 I have shat so long and thick
 One might well think my mind a brick.
 But despite the various places I've trolled,
 I prefer to poop in toilet bowls.

 I have farted at momentous times,
 At symphonies and in reception lines,
 I've perfumed a crowded elevator,
 Then baboomed a quiet movie theater.
 And I have farted in my bed
 So loud I thought I'd wake the dead,
 So strong I felt foundations quake,
 So huge I thought my butt would break!

 And I have puked with a style divine
 From the delicacies upon which I've dined.
 No scag of flesh in gurgling green sauce
 Wouldn't make my tummy urp and toss.
 No glass of lathering, smoldering brew
 Wouldn't know which way my cookies blew.
 But pity me not should I lean sadly puking
 (Puke often tastes better than the slop I'd be chewing!).