Ode to the Squat Toilet
I remove my jeans,
and bend my knees;
these actions practiced,
this tango at ease.
No toilet seat, no lift,
no piss touch my hand;
no rigor, you figure,
this plan for all the land.
But West travels far
North, South, and East,
and the toilet bowl has risen
like fine-porcelain yeast.
A tank, a flush
proliferating rife.
A toilet bowling away
a way of life
And though I'm biased
I must be a realist
the fecal wars are being won
by a shitty Imperialist.
But this is an ode,
the punch line, I'm going to spoil it:
everything needs love
even the squat toilet.
When I first met you,
you seemed so crude,
never offering me a seat
so overtly rude.
So I'd crouch.
With my ass hanging there in the air
where the bowl would be.
My feet precariously close
to where the pee-pee would be:
I was uncomfortable and uncertain,
I'd feel lewd—
this was just savage and dirty
is what I'd conclude:
You were a mystery.
As time went on,
I tried to keep up my stiff defense.
But as I met you again and again
You always greeted me so kindly,
with your potty-mouthed opening,
that forever shit-eating grin,
your smooth curves asking for charity,
for anything I could give,
And I began to take to You.
As I met you wherever I traveled,
You were no longer a surprise guest
You were my best guide
a companion sharing those intimate moments
I'd previously tried to hide.
We became friends that shared, sang and sung.
You gave me your company,
I gave you my dung.
And slowly I realized that
my ass doesn't need a rough-papered rub
nor a soft-charmin scrub:
My ass needs a shower,
My bump needs a bath,
water sprinkling down
from a generous carafe.
Ah! the freshness
Oh! the crisp air
My ass so precious
Sleek and debonair;
Tracing my curves clean
the water's just right,
as I engage in the unseen
and wash instead of wipe.
So I continue a tradition
that pre-dates papyrus;
washing with my left hand,
the same movements
that have been practiced
since the colon's creation.
And now,
in a land of toilet bowls
I mourn my lost friend.
But know...
if I were in line for the loo
my insides pressing me to pee-pee or do-poo,
I wouldn't want a heated seat
Or a Japanese tune to make me discrete.
My feet planted wide
knees bent
saddled up to ride
deep breath exhaling with pride:
I'd not want to sit,
No, that would soil it,
forget the TP
give me my squat toilet.