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Pooetry

Double Helping

What have I done to my bowel?
I’m feeling something much too foul.
A sloppy substance brews within.
Soon to be birthed, a spawn of sin.
Oozing forth from my rear jowl.

The gooey centre has not dissolved.
Still plentiful is the fecal mould.
Encased in flesh this rancid mush.
Descending at snail’s pace, no rush.
So I continue to dig for brown gold.

I excavate the wretched tidal mass.
As I wipe, a dirty wind does pass.
It’s presence, an unbearable scent.
My nostril hairs are suddenly bent.
It’s as if I’m leaking poisonous gas.

Without warning, more solids unearth.
So I repeat this heinous rectal birth.
This load gives my rear much grief.
I’m in need of some southern relief.
It’s left my cave wide a terrible girth.

Pure Pooetry

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