The Turds of the Scouts

by George S. Patton Jr.

The scout sat in the cactus shade
He labored mightily
That he did try to take a shit
Was very plain to see.

For days and weeks he'd ridden hard
He'd eaten many a meal
Yet every morn he waits in vain
Some bowel movement to feel.

Now scouts by nature are so bad
That long-imprisoned turds
Must soon assume their parent's shape
And too be evil birds.

The faces which in common folk
Resembles pumpkin pies
In scouts assumes a texture dark
Yes, lives and breathes and sighs.

Now as the scout his labor pressed
At last he seemed to feel
A slimy thing crawl from his ass
And purr against his heel.

He little recked, the hardy brute
The suffering he did cause
He did not pause to wipe his ass
He just pulled up his drawers.

He jumped upon his sore backed horse
And galloped fast away
Oh! little heeded he or cared
What his dying turd would say.

It lay and suffered in the heat
Its limpid eyes rolled high
And from its fast congealing gills
Escaped a gentle sigh.

I came upon it suffering there
I sobbed to see its pain
When the pale green fog my nostrils reached
I held my nose in vain.

I dashed in agony away
My pity turned to pain
And as the sun dipped in the west
It sighed and died amain.