Magic, Pooetry

Call of The Wizard’s Crack: Part 1

In the wee hours the clock strikes number two.
And my bowels rumble telling me to conjure a poo.

So I don my shitting wizard hat and climb the spiral tower.
As I climb the stairs I flick through my book of brown powers.

With each step upward my insides rumble louder and louder.
“Now where’s that spell to extract sloppy brown chowder!?!”

Atop of the tower lies my workshop filled with magic knick-knacks.
Spellbooks, relics, and the occasional ogre’s butt crack.

My black porcelain cauldron sits at the very top.
I plant my cheeks and begin the magical ingredient drop.

Colon of newt and droppings of rat…
And a single butt hair from a fruit bat.

Then shavings from an albino pig’s behind…
And lastly, a jar full of stinky elephant rind.

To finish it off I squeeze out a log of my own.
Then I wipe and get into the spell casting zone.

I stir it up while I chant the words of fecal wonder.
Suddenly I can hear fierce lightning and thunder.

Glancing up l see a shadowy figure in my doorway!
That’s when my pants received a sudden brown spray.

Another thunderous lightning clap and I’m filled with fright.
Out from the shadows steps an evil Dung Stealer acolyte.

I recognise the amulet he proudly wears as a grave insult.
A dagger through the cheek, the symbol of his fanatic cult.

I am a brown wizard, my magic powers come from the bowels.
The Dung Stealers are righteous, puritanical bunch of wowsers.

They have imprisoned many of my friends, my kind, my ilk.
Now they’ve come for me, to steal my brown chunky milk!


Pure Pooetry

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