Pooetry, War

Fecal War is Hell

War rages on deep in the trench.
My own personal enemy is this stench.

At dawn our fates will be sealed.
Much like this ripper I just peeled.

It signals the onslaught we soon face.
The brown slippery slope we will chase.

We’ll leap from safety and charge forth.
Dropping destiny shaped blobs morph.

I think back to my youth, when I was a child.
My inner poo battles then seem quite mild.

Resources are scarce so I make do.
I keep a journal written with poo.

This bog log recounts my final days.
Doodie death looms in so many ways.

These final words I pen may be my last.
We’re about to go over for a final rectal blast.

Pure Pooetry

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