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Pooetry

Angry Rear Crater

Last night’s meal was a meaty feast.
Foolishly I had fueled an inner beast.

By morning my southern regions were all aflutter.
And something between my cheeks felt like butter.

As I lay in bed partly regretting my decisions…
I felt the stirrings of a violent incision.

But I live dangerously and take risky chances.
So I let rip the gassiest of brown dances.

It gurgled and flapped and sounded like a mousse.
The feeling was awful, like a jet of lumpy juice.

Then the stink arose and reached my nostril hair.
The thick aroma was beyond compare.

I needed the bathroom, and sooner than later.
I must not anger this rear crater!

Pure Pooetry

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