Loaded Gun

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.

Pure Pooetry

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