When Old Man Bruggers lost his mind
we lost utopia.
It started with his crazy war
on fecophobia.

At first he ventured subtle hints
to folks he saw in town
like "Funny how we spread manure,
but flush our dookies down!"

Beneath his breath, he muttered things
about the flow of food,
how crops need tons of nitrogen
(abundant in our poo).

And then one day a youthful grin
sprang up on Bruggers' face.
He cried, "My turds will feed the earth
'cause nature makes no waste!"

"It's dangerous!" his daughter said,
"You'll get a weird disease!"
So Bruggers checked out forty books
and gained some expertise.

He kicked his toilet to the curb
and cussed the thing to hell.
We wondered where he shat until
his compost pile swelled.

And so it went the next two years,
us gagging all the while.
He defecated in a pail
and dumped it with a smile.

We were content to leave him be
until the potluck came.
He brought organic salad but
he didn't put his name.

Five plates for Reverend Underwood
grew ceiling-high with kale.
Forgetting proper etiquette,
the Reverend just inhaled.

He stood and said, "Who brought the greens?
I must give my regards!"
So Old Man Bruggers raised his hand.
"I grew 'em in my yard."

An intervention followed in
the choir loft above.
We said, "You've got to stop this shit."
He said, "But shit is love!"