There was a young poet from Nantucket
Who carried his poems in a bucket
Every now and again
He’d stick his hand in
To randomly grab one, he’d pluck it
Listen to this! He would suddenly shout
To any poor souls wandering about
No need to be so down in the mouth
Pouring poems from his bucket quenching their drought
See that is better, of humor, you’d dried.
With a huge belly laugh, he shat… Splitting his sides.