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Pooetry

The Celebration

With cheeks firmly planted I put pen to paper.
It’s time to rhyme about this pooey caper.

It’s a special day, the anniversary of Papa’s birth.
To celebrate I release something of considerable girth.

Kind of like spuds all mashed together…
Only worse to smell and much, much heavier.

As it released there was an escaping gas.
A horrible experience from out my ass.

Slop and slurry piled into a mound.
Luckily for me I stood my ground.

I thought the job was over but then I needed to wee.
I hoped no one was listening so I sang happy birthday to me.

Pure Pooetry

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