A poem about potties by a literature major

Would be an affront, to their truest of nature

A respectable author would never sink so low

To write about farts and how they can blow

They crone about sunsets so beautifully bright

Never some movement you had that same night

All must conform to what the learned half thinks

To smell their own crap, would just prove that it stinks

They believe in the subject, not how well it’s displayed

They should ponder of silk, or how it is made

No matter the dressings, we all do the same dance

And even an artist, can mess his own pants