The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.
Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.
We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.
We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.
Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.
A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.
Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.
And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.
Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.
Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?
Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.
I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.
Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Seriously, what the ****?