The Turds of the Scouts

He labored mightily

That he did try to take a shit

Was very plain to see.

For days and weeks he'd ridden hard

He'd eaten many a meal

Yet every morn he waits in vain

Some bowel movement to feel.

Now scouts by nature are so bad

That long-imprisoned turds

Must soon assume their parent's shape

And too be evil birds.

The faces which in common folk

Resembles pumpkin pies

In scouts assumes a texture dark

Yes, lives and breathes and sighs.

Now as the scout his labor pressed

At last he seemed to feel

A slimy thing crawl from his ass

And purr against his heel.

He little recked, the hardy brute

The suffering he did cause

He did not pause to wipe his ass

He just pulled up his drawers.

He jumped upon his sore backed horse

And galloped fast away

Oh! little heeded he or cared

What his dying turd would say.

It lay and suffered in the heat

Its limpid eyes rolled high

And from its fast congealing gills

Escaped a gentle sigh.

I came upon it suffering there

I sobbed to see its pain

When the pale green fog my nostrils reached

I held my nose in vain.

I dashed in agony away

My pity turned to pain

And as the sun dipped in the west

It sighed and died amain.