Knickers, smallclothes, underwear,
things that cover bits down there;
hipsters, Y fronts, passion killers,
big-pants, smalls and crotchless thrillers,
boxers, underpants and panties,
directoires as worn by aunties,
lon-jer-ray and thongs and things,
inexpressibles and strings;
slimmers, hi-legs, trunks and naughties,
tangas, briefs and lacy shorties –
all must fall when nature calls
and we are screened by modest walls:
bathrooms, washrooms, smallest rooms,
loos in cupboards full of brooms,
lavatories, netties, johns,
toilets with sitdownupons;
privies, closets, single-bowlers,
one- and two- and family-holers.
Plastic potty, thing of wonder,
used to be a plain gazunder,
jerry, china pot or po,
brimful with night’s overflow.
Pay a visit, wash your hands,
spend a penny (man just stands)
to plant a sweet pea down the drain,
point Percy at the porcelain,
or sit in state upon the throne
whereon the Pope must go alone
to do his reigning over China
painted by a fine designer.
Shake hands with your oldest friend.
It has to come out in the end.