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Pooetry

Backed Up

I feel all backed up and plugged.
Poossibly all the beer I’ve chugged.

Plus the mountains of junk food.
It’s as if my butthole is shut and glued.

Or poohaps I’ve eaten far too much fruit.
Trading hours are closed for my poop chute.

Still, I try to blast out from my stink ring.
But it’s tooting, trumpeting voice won’t sing.

Too much or too little fibre in this diet…
Has silenced my rear, now deathly quiet.

Ideally, I want to unload a monster heap.
But I can’t even get a turtlehead to peep.

There’s some sort of blockage, a traffic jam.
This movement won’t get with the poogram.

Yet I’m ready to burst like a beaver’s dam.
Poo-pressure is heavy, weighing a kilogram.

I’ve been sitting for hours, all night long.
I hope by morning my butt sings it’s song.

Pure Pooetry

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