I write with regret to tell you this—
a tale of a peculiar belletrist
who never subjects to an editorial deletion
a single reference to her bodily secretions.
It’s true—the incontrovertible fact is
she once wrote a poem to her own ear waxes.
As soon as she crossed that one off her list
she composed a short story about a sebaceous cyst.
It will do you no good to mention “oversharing,”
she thinks what she’s doing is bold and daring.
If you delicately comment “TMI”
she’ll let you have it with “In a pig’s (eye).”
Once she had a child the situation grew worse,
she’d incorporate the thing in her bloody verse
with dutiful accounts of what she saw in its diapers
and the greatest hits found on its baby butt wipers.
I should probably add as a final parentheses
that her favorite theme lately is her monthly menses.
Don’t know about you but for my part
I’d rather she omit it from her attempts at art.
No there’s something peculiar, I have no doubt
about a woman who includes what others leave out.
I think you can see why I’ve had enough
of the scatological—but creative!—young woman named Duff.
The work she submits to the most high-toned editors
In a vain striving for fame won’t pay off her creditors.
The stuff the world flushes or discards in bags
is thrown out for a reason—except by lit mags.