Ding Dung

I reckon the dung beetle
Content in his stink,
As he heaves and rolls
His gold: firm, moist, and luscious.

Sticks are his hands, they savor
Every succulent
Moment of feeling;
Frequent kissing of the orb
As they roll some more,
Brown and black become
His skin and his safe haven.

I reckon the dung beetle,
Content in my stink;
I believe I'm whole,
I hold me most pretentious.