Don’t Turn Up Your Nose

What is it about the smell of one’s poop that gets us so conflicted?

You sneer at my fart, yet you’re so contradicted.

For if we did battle poops amongst these two stalls.

And if there were a poop Smithsonian adorned with full halls.

The curator, with a sniff of your graphite laced walls.

Would run out the door screaming, “Universe, please, please hold all my calls.”