Extruding The Noodle

In the land of the blind, one-eyed man is king. 
But in the bowl, only the brown eye will sing. 

So after an evening of culinary excess… 
I have something sickly to confess. 

I awoke to a tingle in the nose. 
From the bed a foul scent arose.  

My wife had a sour look on her face. 
And I was filled with such disgrace.  

According to her, she’d slept not a wink. 
All night I’d been exhausting the stink. 

Non-stop farts had filled the room. 
Impossible to sleep with fecal fumes. 

What was the cause? What was the reason? 
Below grew a rumble of turdly-treason. 

In my guts waged a rectal war, fecal feudal. 
Time had passed to extrude this noodle. 

I threw off the sheets, allowing air to escape. 
A warmth flew out that smelled of an ape. 

Chased by angry yells I fled to the lavvy. 
And my belly full of brown, I did carry. 

The heavy load was pain upon my legs. 
But I made it and readied to drop the dregs. 

This one called for an air-drop, no sitting. 
For the two next hours, I spewed the shitting. 

The noodle oozed and sluggishly poured forth. 
Its weight ensured it went opposite of north. 

Still standing, I grew tired of the endless seeping. 
Forever my brown eye was sadly weeping. 

For hours, it curled into the bowl making a whippy. 
Enough! I broke it off with the clench o’snippy! 

Pure Pooetry

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