poop machine

My baby is a super-dupe
poop machine. She's always
eating just to poop used food! 
She wipes clean, 

don't ask me how I know,
don't ask me how I know. 
That's private business, yo. 

When she gets up purposefully, 
sometimes I sing the poop machine
song - that's when she hits me! 

"Problems poopin', baby? 
Don't want no one to know?" 

That's a joke. My baby has
no such problems, yo. 

Don't 
ask me how I know. 
Don't ask me how

I know she's a poop machine. 

Most people wouldn't guess 
just from looking at her.
It's not the kind of thing 
she'd like emphasized, 

but 

I know 
because she told me herself, 
one time.
She announced it in the flush
of triumphant return: "I'm a
poop machine, baby!" - she
said. Qu'elle surprise!

But
she's true, my baby is. And so
I believed her. And so
I learned. 

What I never otherwise 
might have guessed. I would
not have figured out why
she goes from the room,
to come back 
with a rosy glow.

I confess, if I thought 
of it at all, I'd have only 
assumed! "Pfft! Probably
makeup, or something"
- that's wrong! 

But once I found out, 
I sang the poop machine
song she so secretly loves,
when she goes from the room.

So secret in fact
is her love of that song
- you might never even
know it, just by how she reacts
when I serenade her on her way

to make boom. 

But you could be wrong, 
as a matter-of-fact.