Let me not to the breeding of true goats
admit false excrement.
Poop is not poop that alters when it constipation finds.
Or bends with the mucker to remove.
No, it is an ever-tumbling rain of pellets
That stick to hooves and shan’t be shaken.

It is the dung on every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although its grams be taken.
Poop’s no mere stool, that wagging butts
and tails doth lift to dump.
Poop alters not with mud and snow and sleet,
But bears it out, even to the last shovel’s doom.
If this be error or appears depraved,
I never shat, nor no goat ever brayed.

–Molino