Cake. Gas. Death.

Baking cakes on the porcelain throne.
I release a cream filled groan.
The first slice hits.
Stench is the pits.
Stained is my southern zone.

All I can smell is ass.
Clearly I have no class.
I continue to unleash fumes.
Like a rancid flower blooms.
Trapped below is noxious gas.

I tilt to my right side.
Elevating half my hide.
The deadly gas leaks out.
I need to scream and shout.
This is quite the wild ride.

It’s time I should wipe my bum.
Cleared free of brown crumb.
Then I’ll retire the for the night.
My rectum is a grounded flight.
Snooze-oozing the filthy scum.

Nightmares of an evil toilet bowl.
They devour the deposits whole.
Porcelain fangs and Blue Duck breath.
Spell a rectum’s certain death.
Bound to Hell the shite soul.

Pure Pooetry

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