FECAL DYSMORPHIA

Whene’er I go to drop a deuce
I find that there is no damn use
To try to guess its size.

I’ll hear a subtle, silent “plip,”
Yet find a monster turd has slipped
Right out, to my surprise.

Or push and grunt and heave and strain
As though to hemorrhage my brain,
A-bugging out my eyes,

To find results that disappoint:
A loaf as big’s my knuckle-joint.
“’Tis bupkes!” then I cries.

The effort’s disproportionate
When what you feel ain’t what you get:
Know this, and you’ll be wise.