I sit and push, outing a shit I try.
Yet only a fart is revealing, I cry. :'(

Why does it have to be this way?
Why do my bowels get the final say?

Constipation is thy shitty name.
Rhyming poo-puns, that’s the game.

Finally a nugget protrudes from within.
Gracing the now stale air, I give a grin.

I wipe and flush, the deed is done.
Oust is the fecal villain from my bum.

That evening in bed, an incoming fart.
Ironically I don’t push yet out comes a shart.

Pure Pooetry

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