I’m unwell and stuck at home with nothing to do.
Mounting the throne, I’ll compose a pooem or two.
Quite literally bored out of my brains.
So I’ll shed some words of brown rain.
Hopefully I’ll make an epic rhyme of poo.

So far I rekcon this pooem is going well.
But then I get a waft of the horrid smell.
I look frantically for the fragrant spray.
But I pass out from the stink of brown clay.
This boredom bog really did raise Hell.