Breakfast Bog

Breakfast was delicious but I might be in trouble.
Something deep down has started to bubble.

I let out a sour burp from my mouth.
Followed by a fart from the south.

The cloudy gas was a warning sign.
Sadly it was not the fragrance of pine.

The breakfast I ate was far too rich.
Now I have to scratch this brown itch.

The volatile mass within calls aloud again.
It’s a trumpeting that seems to never end.

Suddenly I lurch forward with a violent shove.
Must find a loo fast or I’ll need cleaning gloves.

Staggering here and there, bowels twist in pain.
An unloading into my pants, I must refrain.

Yet another angry heave as I clutch at my gut.
Cheeks clenched tightly to keep my butthole shut.

A vacant drain pipe I do spy.
It is time to let this fecal fly.

I’m squatting stealthily to make this quick and quiet.
Blasting the grizzly disgorge, outing the liquid riot.

Sighing with sweet relief, I take in my surroundings.
I missed the drain, my shoes covered in rancid drowning.

Pure Pooetry

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