Urine is like my love
For you—relatively pure.
It may have some contaminants,
But their numbers are few.

I try to hold it in,
But my love for you doth flow
Like words from a poet’s pen
When the muses have inspired.

When for a while it’s been unrelieved,
It refuses to stop.
It eventually starts overflowing,
Presenting some need for a mop.