The Missus observed, as we sat down to our meat
That my poetic output with Romance ain’t replete.
Not so! quoth I, and searched all through the files
That reside on my devices in a myriad of piles,
Only to come up empty. No hearts and flowers,
Just poems about excretion, and flatulence in showers.
Oft-times I think of doody when I write.
And yet, amidst the poems of poop and piss,
Somehow, I’m proud to say I salvaged this:
A song of love, writ to my Valentine.
Romantic? Yes, indeed - and it’s all mine.