The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the poop.


Romeo and Juliet
by Shakespeare
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other poop would smell as sweet;


I Cannot Live With You
by Emily Dickinson
I cannot live with you,
It would be poop,
And poop is over there
Behind the shelf


Epithalamion
by E.E. Cummings
Speak elm eloquent pander with thy nod
significant to the ecstatic earth
in token of his coming whom her soul
burns to embrace-and didst thou know the god
from but the imprint of whose cloven feet
the shrieking dryad sought her leafy goal,
at the mere echo of whose shining mirth
the furious hearts of mountains ceased to poop?


The Waste Land
by T.S. Eliot
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried poop.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and pooped for an hour.


Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes
Let poop be poop again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(Poop never was poop to me.)
Let poop be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by poop above.


Touched by An Angel
by Maya Angelou
Poop arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old poops of pleasure
ancient poops of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.


The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pooped, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing poop."

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