My bum is like a fully loaded gun.
The bullets are filthy brown chum.
I’m pulling the trigger but to no avail.
The speed of this fecal is like a snail.
Like a cork stuck in my tail pipe.
All I want is a flooding of the tripe.
My poo-poo-patience grows thin.
The bowl needs fecal to fall in.
There must be a jam of epic pooportions.
It’s as if my bowel is having a fecal extortion.
I’ll pay the ransom fee, whatever the cost.
Just let the brown flow out my exhaust.
But I grunt and groan, all to no avail.
I fear the mass will become stale.
Maybe I’ve got a cannon, not a loaded gun.
If only I could light the fuse under my bum.
The final heave unleashes the explosive bog.
Porcelain debris now surrounded by brown fog.