Shakespeare and shitter

Boy squatting by crumbly kerb
Shitting away to glory
Whistling a song to the mute chagrin
Of Girl on eleventh storey.
‘Every morning when I drink my tea
And greet the dewy sun
Some bastard has to crap or pee
Screw this Hindostan.’
But boy so nonchalantly sprays
The pavement with his bladder
– O the mirth of salad days –
And girl grows madder and madder.
‘My spot! My spot! That’s where I park
That’s where I sprawl to change my tyre!
O for a leaking gas-stove spark
To raze the slums with god’s own fire!’
But boy ever innocently
Piles up turd on turd
That look like clay torpedoes
And smell like putrid curd.
And by his side, his sister squats
(Before them was their mother)
Tranquilly in parking lots
Grown children crap together.
Girl spouts silent imprecation:
Boy ravish female relation;
Wondering, did Shakespeare see this too?
Somewhere, by green-skinned Avon
Where linnet and love-bird sang,
And draft animals carried themselves
With the grace of an Englishman.
Where cockerels crowed and gallants bowed
And girls gloried in naiveté
And none gingerly trod the road
For people shat in private.

I feel no empathy with the shitter:
But Shakespeare did, and he knew better.