Creation

Despite the cistern's powerful gush,
Despite the coax of toilet brush,
The foetuses refuse to flush.

Defeated, the abortionist
Turns his hand at being an artist
And pulverises with his fist

Until his hand is bruised and sore
And the unborn reduced to gore,
With which he smears the walls and floor.

From the toilet one needs to strain
To see in the dried foetal stain
A bit of bone or flesh or brain.