It has never been said
That shouting at yellow balls
Bouncing off Saturn’s rings
Could make one feel incontinent
Especially among esoteric circles
Of insolent plumbers
Moreover
It has never been stipulated
Within the orthodox doctrines
Of affectionate proctologists
To disallow promiscuous probes
From visiting the murky estuaries
Of Uranus
Even periodically
It has never been debated
Whether pubic hair straighteners
Applied to the bald mounds of Mars
Are beneficial to the curly soul
This having been misunderstood
By interstellar barbers
Who typically migrate there
With stampedes of embarrassed sloths
And though contrary
To what wise men have yet to surmise
It is our sophisticated illiteracy
That ultimately compels us
To cross-examine
The wastepaper baskets of Venus
And lick the stale ink
From abandoned navels
And unread car manuals
But it never remains unmentioned
That prepubescent grandmothers
Have kept closed-mouthed
Regarding their casual urinations
Into the eye of Jupiter’s hurricane
Inferring that all great storms
Are impious enough
To turn counterclockwise
Just as the disgruntled waters
Of our earthly toilets
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