What is it with you? Whenever you get into a car and head north to the pristine loveliness of Canada's forested and lake area you seem to think that it is time to write poetry?

To forestall any of that I have created something for you:

Why is it, we wonder, when you get into cars
For some unknown reason you think of your arse?

Why don't you enjoy the pristine and the pretty
And not write in couplets about poo on the jetty?

Your readers must find it a major intrusion
To have to read poems about your ablution.

Your father must have been a really old pharte
To create a poo monster who thinks this is art.

THE END!