Harry, is the monkey's name
around the park, he did run,
looking for the outhouse
squeezing together, his buns.
He had found an outhouse
but, he couldn't get in,
a wino was singing it up
sucking back a bottle rum and gin.
Poor old Harry grunted
he shouldn't have left his home,
his friends fed him ex-lax
at the mouth, he started to foam.
He shook the outhouse violently
splish splash went the liquids inside,
he had the rumbles so very bad
something may have crawled up inside him and died.
He tooted and grunted
then tooted and grunted some more,
finally the outhouse was free
he entered and slammed the door.
The toilet paper roll sat bare
what was he to do?
He had to find something
was there anything he could use?
He got off the stinky throne
looked everywhere for something outside,
squeezed his cheeks together, once again
on his way home, found places to hide.
Harry, is the monkey's name he reads the news every day,
loves to sit upon his own throne finds it so much better that way.
