I plan a micturition
Of exemplary precision
I accept it as my mission
Never more to splash the floor
I imagine every fellow
With a girlfriend’s heard her bellow
‘Cause that small puddle of yellow
On the tiles always riles

I know a lot of women’ll
Consider it near criminal
And with compunction minimal,
Complain about our aim
‘Though quite a few demean us
Most of them have never seen us
At this business with the penis
The thing whereof I sing

I’m not making excuses
But I’d hope that our abuses
With our bodies’ excess juices
‘Though not good, be understood
I don’t know the member’s physics
But a strange thing ‘bout it is its
Rigid will in morning visits
To divide its gushing tide

The main flow thunders straightly
And it mystifies me greatly
To observe how separately
Is offset a smaller jet
And although of lesser volume
As you watch this trickle fall you
Might neglect what should apall you
Mate! its falling towards the wall!

Moreover, the remotest
From your thoughts, and quite unnoticed,
A drip that’s missed the moat is
Trickling down upon the ground
So a stream that’s twice deflected
Might explain why we’re suspected
Of being so defective
In the skills to ward off spills

But what is the conclusion
To be drawn from this confusion?
This triple-streamed effusion?
This failing of the male?
Well, if your garden has a citrus
And there’s no one there to witness
I can recommend the fitness
Of a splash upon the grass

But when in the interior
We ought not act superior
But sit on our posterior
We can still be a man!
So I plan a micturition
Of exemplary precision
I accept it as my mission
Never more to splash the floor