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.
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