Who Rocks the Potty, That Rocks the Body?

The other night I was sound asleep. Actually, not only was I asleep, but I was having a great dream. I don't remember all of the details, but I do know it involved Gary Larson's The Far Side. Suddenly, I was ripped from my slumber by rumbles and grumbles in my tumbles. I left the warm confines of my bed to go make dirt. I was disappointed to find that I simply had a case of the devil's wind (that's right, for those of you who didn't know, the name of this blog is quite simply a fart joke. I stand by it.) Anyway, dispite my dissatifaction with the situation, I did find myself remembering the classic restroom poetry:

Here I sit, Broken Hearted. Came to sh**, but only farted.

Brilliant.
Here are some other classics.

Those who write on bathroom walls, Roll their sh** in tiny balls. Those who read these words of wit, eat those tiny balls of sh**.

In days of old, when knights were bold, and condoms weren't invented. They rapped their c**ks with dirty socks, and babies were prevented.

Here's plenty more.