When you’re analyzing Joyce
and your butthole has no choice:
Diarrhea. Diarrhea.
When you’re paraphrasing Bloom
and you’re stinking up the room:
Diarrhea. Diarrhea.
When you’re quoting Schopenhauer
and release a dirty shower:
Diarrhea. Diarrhea.
When you’re citing Marcel Proust
and you feel that doo-doo juice:
Diarrhea. Diarrhea.
When you’re laughing at Voltaire
and you flood your underwear:
Diarrhea. Diarrhea.