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Coffee, Mornings, Pooetry

A Bad Feeling

I have a bad feeling…
From a fart I was peeling…

It gave a resounding echo.
I’ve had too many espressos.

And the scent that arose…
I was transfixed, froze.

For the feeling, I mentioned before…
Is unpleasant in my drawers.

The temperature wasn’t right.
Had there slipped a wet shite?

There was definitely some moisture.
Not unlike a soggy oyster.

Only one question remained.
Did I wear the mark of shame?

Had I birthed rotten fruit?
Instead of a simple toot.

I decided to take a chance.
Hand into back of pants.

It was a choice I regretted.
But not cos I was wetted.

I simply knew it was rash.
To dive into a pootential splash.

But the results were inconclusive.
My pants were not a poo-sieve.

Palm and digits were clear.
Yet somehow I sensed a smear.

Further investigation was needed.
My sweaty brow now beaded.

Tension and stress was high.
Was that a trickle down my thigh?

I was so unsure of it all.
Doubt and fear crept and crawled.

Or was that a slimy substance?
Crawling southward in abundance.

Was all this even real?
Could I smell my last meal?

I awoke from this horrid dream.
And promptly released rear steam.

Thankfully it was just gas, just a fart.
But the sheets wore the sickening shart.

Pure Pooetry

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