The urge to go is overwhelming
But where to go is also something
The trip must be fast and forthcoming
The job finished must be becoming

Why would this place be put so far out
I know that the smell is a factor no doubt
But geez this place is as cold as new grout
The seat is like brass with the insides turned out

Up here in the Yukon, you always hear howls
It isn’t the coyotes or wolves flitting jowls
The paper is waiting no room for soft towels
It’s me you hear screaming when I move my bowls

Even the catalog is so frigid it snaps
Can’t fold it or soften it with ice on its wraps
My hiney is squinching anticipating the laps
Why on earth did God make us need craps?


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