Men's Pooing Time is Sacred, A Hole-y Mystery, It all takes place behind closed doors, Where no one else can see. They set off with their paper, Or book, or magazine, And then for twenty minutes, They're nowhere to be seen. I don't know what they do in there, Or why it takes so long, But certainly there seems to be An injustice, and a wrong. For though there's great variety, In the work us mothers do, One thing is universal - We don't get time to poo. We wash, we wipe, we feed, we love, We pick up toys, we cuddle, And somehow our most basic needs Get lost amidst the juggle. We sometimes make a dash for it, If we feel in desperate need, But with children hanging off each leg There's not much time to read. Our menfolk have maintained their right To defecate alone, Now we need a Revolution For a Small Room of our Own. We've campaigned for equality At work and in our pay So now let's fight for Twenty Minutes Pooing Time ...