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Pooetry

Brown Blaster

You know what would be an utter disaster?
While driving, unleashing the brown blaster.

I’m talking about an explosion of dreaded diarrhoea.
Forever you’d be nicknamed the interior smearer.

Then police pull you over for a sobriety check.
Windows are coated with a million brown specks.

They tell you it’s an illegal colour of tint.
They’re clueless to your recent poopie stint.

But the smell hits them and their weapons are drawn.
They even spot a couple bits of corn.

Then they all scream “He’s got a chemical weapon!”
Guns aimed, no desire for stinky armageddon.

Finally they lock you up as the turdly terrorist master.
In your cell you release another brown blaster!

Pure Pooetry

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