I stumbled across an item from the Poetry Foundation, “Haiku on Shit” by Masaoka Shiki, in my virtual wanderings and thought it a delightful departure from the daily shit monsoon, against which a parasol, a wetsuit, or a subterranean bunker are no defense.
Mad Blog Media 
Ohio GOP Senate primary, perhaps?
I would comment, but first I must get my shit together.
We’ll have to let George Carlin have your comment, then.
Looks like shit. Smells like shit. Feels like shit. And tastes like shit.
Good thing I didn’t step in it.
An all-time fave.
Happy Cinco de Mayo! Pop a Cervesa and pour a shot of Cuervo and celebrate the French getting handed their asses by a bunch of campesinos.
No shit. Remember the Battle of Puebla! Also, the words of John Steinbeck regarding Bohemia beer, via Old Jingleballicks in “Sweet Thursday”:
Backpacking has often driven me to poetry:
Whilst erecting my tent
A bear turd gives pause
S’ok, not a haiku, but in the spirit.
O, indeed, those bear turds linger in the mind long after the aroma is absent from the snout.
I shat a few times in an outhouse that was claimed to have been the first place that Sputnik was seen. According to a misguided research scientist (no not you Khal), up at the Geophysical Institute in Fairbanks, he was appreciating his constitution when Sputnik alighted across the sky. Rumors have been started on less, but the outhouse does have an official commemorative plaque appreciating the sighting.
Bohemia beer and Cinco de Mayo. I suppose that’s not something you’d want to bring up this evening in some Paris biker bar.
How many reverse gears does a French moto have? (rimshot) But I keed, I keed. …