Omphaloskepsis (navel-gazing)

One does not gaze

Using one's navel

Nor that of others too

One gazes as if

Perusing one's navel

I can and so can you.

Navel gazing 

Isn't social

It's purely about me.

It's another way

Of saying,

"I'm all there is, you see."

My wife complains

I'm introspective.

What can I say to that?

Apart from

"Is that you, Dear?

I mistook you for a hat."

My children whine

I'm selfish.

I mean my kids, not yours.

So I lash them soundly

With my tongue

And give them extra chores.

When all is quiet

In the house,

Void of my lamb and mutton

I can do

What I love best:

Staring at my button.

There really is

So much to view

Within one's fetal knot

Whether

It's an outie

Or just a simple slot.

My one

In particular

Is full of wondrous stuff.

I don't mean

Pubic follicles

Or bits of navel fluff.

And certainly

Not smegma

How would it get up there?

Unless it treked

Up from my crotch

Through all that curly hair.

No, indeed,

My own navel,

By which I mean the one

That's located

Neath my man boobs

Just below my tum

Is a constant source

Of fascination

For idlers like yours truly

Who've too much time

Upon their hands

For suchlike tomfoolery.

So if you will

Excuse me

I have a thing to do

And no, you're wrong,

I do not need

To go sit on the loo.

For my navel

Is a-calling.

I hear its plaintive cry.

And so

I bid you farewell,

A.k.a. good-bye.