H.B. FLYTE

(A poem I wrote a couple of years ago, recently found in a pile of papers. I appear to be channeling Benny Hill. I could do a lot worse.)

I heard the hesitation
and the grunt of forced cessation
and I realized that I’d caught you in the act.

And I smelled the strain and guessed
at your movement now suppressed
and in kindness, I found no cause to react.

So I banged and boomed and bustled
and I hacked and huffed and hustled
and made quick work what I meant to do.

Parted quick in hands-damp hurry
to release you from your worry
left alone to sigh and finish up your poo.