My Posterior’s Altar

My posterior’s altar is a favourite place,
Not only – well, you know - just in case.
Undisturbed and quiet, I can cogitate and dream,
And of course, I always keep everything spotlessly clean.
I would hate to have cause for complaint and then moan
About sundry imperfections to my lavatorial throne.

I speak of these dreams with a moderation of taste,
Since I am not here concerned with matters below the waist.
No, I am dreaming great thoughts that are anything but factual
And they don’t belong to the province of functions just natural,
I am also preparing myself for life outside my little room
That yields the comfort one expects from a lavatorial cocoon.

But the fruit of my labours is sometimes hard to discern
And, no, what’s flushed away is not my concern.
I re-enter the world and reflect on my thoughts;
Yet all too often they resemble a row of noughts.
So, I’ve spent all this time just sitting in the loo
Only to emerge again without even a clue!