ODE TO PUBLIC JOHN

By Skot Gillies

This is my song to Public John, Something highly underrated.
For, without him our streets would smell, And we’d all be constipated.
Ans'ring to the call of nature, I come from yonder pastures green
Arriving in this olfact'ry warzone, Far from somewhat close to clean.
But, “this'll have to do,” I say, ‘”Cuz it's the only thing around,
Unless I were to find a trash can Or do my duty on the ground.”
Planting my rear upon the seat, Toilet paper by my side, Preparing for inevitable chill, As one question comes to mind:
Oh, wherever art thou cheeks of flesh whose warmth doth linger where I sit?
For 'tis you to whom I owe the comfort of this throne on which I shit.
Although wax paper does quite nicely To shield my bum from freezing cold,
There's nothing like a nice pre-heated, Freshly flush'ed porcelain bowl.
Having done my business now, I relax in pure serenity, Till a putrid stench makes its way From the stall right next to me.
This I cannot stand much longer, I must escape or I shall die.
There should be a warning label On broccoli and mince meat pie!
I run my hands through cleansing water, Rinse the soap, grab paper towels,
Then quickly dart, with unmatched speed, Away from air soiled by turpid bowels.
Running, running until I reach, Safe distance at a mile away,
I stop to think, what would I've done Without John there to save the day?
This is my song to Public John, Something that we all should cherish,
For if, perhaps, he weren't created, Humanity would surely perish.