Danger Spill Plopinson!

I need somewhere to drop this load.
Somewhere like my own abode.
But I’m miles away in a foreign land.
And between my cheeks I feel gritty sand.
So I tell my butt to go into clench mode.

I must hold tight with all my might.
This brown must not take space flight.
I close my eyes and have a think.
But my mind snaps back to rancid stink.
And now my spacesuit is in danger of shite.

If only I had a special robotic companion.
With a body constructed in porcelain fashion.
It could scoop up my decrepit doodoo remains.
And process them with it’s robotic brain.
Then wipe me clean with a gentle action.

Pure Pooetry

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