There was a young man of St. Giles 
               Who'd walked thousands and thousands of miles, 
                    From the Cape of Good Hope, 
                    Just to bugger the Pope, 
               But he couldn't---the pontiff had piles. 

Someone in Winslow, Maine didn't like Mr. Wood:

In Memory of Beza Wood
Departed this life
Nov. 2, 1837
Aged 45 yrs.
Here lies one Wood
Enclosed in wood
One Wood
Within another.
The outer wood
Is very good:
We cannot praise
The other.

               There once was a writer named Twain 
               Who had a peculiar stain 
                    Surrounding the head 
                    Of his prick: it was red, 
               And was said to wash off in the rain. 

There was a young man from Rangoon
Whose farts could be heard to the moon.
When you'd least expect 'em,
They'd burst from his rectum
With the force of a raging typhoon.

There was a young man from Cape Grace 
Who blew a fart out into space. 
With gravity's attraction 
And Einstein's reaction, 
It returned and spat shit in his face!