"You're full of shit," he said to her. He was her doctor, so he knew
that she could eat and eat and eat, but never could she pooh,
and then one day she would explode and spread her unshat shit around.
This diagnosis was severe but, so he said, quite sound.
Unlikely as this seemed to her, she worried that it might be true,
so rushed off to investigate at the very nearest loo.
She sat upon the toilet-seat and squeezed until her butt was sore,
but not a drop escaped from her. Nor would do evermore.
She lives upon that toilet-seat. She married there and bore a kid,
but never did she leave her throne, nor ever close its lid.
We've tried to come to terms with her, poor Winnie and her unshat shit,
to some her body's out of whack, to some she's full of it.
As we all know, she's still in there, waiting to pooh or to explode,
with an increasing anxiousness, and an increasing load.
We wonder how it all will end, and some of us have placed small bets,
and while we calculate the odds, poor Winnie simply frets.