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Pooetry

Packing Heat

Down south, I’m packing heat.
Getting ready to fire from my seat.

An itchy trigger to fire the sludge.
Gotta take aim and unpack the fudge.

But this inner turmoil, this packed heat…
Has a byproduct aroma, far from discreet.

All morn I’m breaking furious wind.
My coworkers take it on the chin.

I equip the silencer but it’s too late.
Forever sealed is my stinky fate.

I’m also receiving some very strange looks.
This stench is one for the record books.

Now it’s high time I fired this rocket.
I wish I had a flap in my back pocket!

Cos then it’d shoot straight to its target.
Instead of amassing in my undergarment.

Pure Pooetry

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