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Pooetry

Doodoo Dwelling

Hey, would you do me a solid?
This bathroom is filthy and squalid.

The porcelain is badly in need of a clean.
Aeons-old poo grows mouldy and green.

Little stalactites of poo cling to the ceiling.
Turds in the cracks have been concealing.

The air hangs stale and reeking of cheese.
My canary fainted before letting out a wheeze.

Brown fumes dim the already hazy light.
Creatures dwell here are fecal parasites.

I nearly sat on a little brown stalagmite.
Useless is a mop, you’ll need to use dynamite.

I hear a dripping echo somewhere unseen.
It’s been years since the tiles had a nice sheen.

Like a cave, the stink is moist and dank.
In the corner a leak from a septic tank.

A putrid pile seems to bubble and hiss.
As if a gateway to a sinister shit abyss.

This bathroom’s glory days have long since been.
Now a slimy khaki smelling existence of chow mein.

This has to be the world’s worst toilet.
Too many people’s shit has spoiled it.

Pure Pooetry

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